


Only Human

by SephrinaRose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bite doesn't take, Bittersweet, Blood, Cancer, Car Accident, Carer Derek, Confused and Alone, Death, Dementia, Derek finds Stiles' body, Derek kills Stiles, Derek's Past Haunts Him, Drowning, Drunk Driver, Falling short, Fire, Gen, Gore, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kate kills Stiles, Lydia tries to save him, Mentions of Hale Pack - Freeform, Mild Sterek, Murder, Pack Feels, Parental Derek, Poison, Scars, Scattering ashes, Scott Feels, Scott Leaves Stiles To Die, Seriously Bittersweet, Sheriff Finds Stiles' Body, Stiles Death, Stiles Dies in Derek's Arms, Stiles Dies in Lydia's Arms, Stiles Dies in Scott's Arms, Stiles Feels, Stiles Stilinski Gets Bitten Instead of Scott McCall, Stiles body delivered to Sheriff, Stiles died by Accident, Stiles doesn't know about wolves, Stiles doesn't know why he is dying, Stiles gets kicked out of the pack, Stiles never got to graduate, Stiles-centric, Stilinski feels, Suicide, The Sheriff finds out too late, Tragedy, Violence, Warning: Kate Argent, Wolfsbane, ghost - Freeform, graphic death, references to self harm, stiles' mom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:25:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 120,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3511772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SephrinaRose/pseuds/SephrinaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is human.</p><p>And sometimes he forgets that fact. But, luckily for him...the universe is all too happy to remind him.</p><p>Because Stiles is only human.</p><p>(Series of one-shots depicting Stiles Stilinski's death)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Car Accident

**Author's Note:**

> This so my new work were all my Stiles death one shots can be stored from now on. 
> 
> Welcome, newcomers. 
> 
> These one shots are very sad, in a variety of ways. Angst is basically the only thing I can write, but some of these are also very bittersweet. And some are just plain tragic.
> 
> Enjoy :)

The accident was horrific, in complete honesty.

And it wasn't just the image of the scene that really hurt....it's the fact of who it happened to.

All Derek could smell was blood. The metallic scent permeating him through his nose and through his whole body. He felt sick, wanted to be sick...but couldn't. Never could. He couldn't afford that small and sick relief, not if it meant that during that wasted time there could be some way to get the boy out of this.

He had just been out in the woods, making sure his territory was secure...just like any other day in the life of Derek Hale. It was during school time, and damnit, the boy should have been in class with his pack....safe and secure, away from the dangers of this horrible world.

But he wasn't. And Derek didn't know why, and probably would never know...because he didn't think Stiles could ever get the chance to tell him.

But he was there in the woods, scenting everything and sniffing occasionally...when the scent hit. It was honestly overwhelming, even to him. He staggered, leaning against the tree as it washed over him.

And it wasn't just the intensity that shocked him...it was the scent mixed within it.

Stiles' scent.

And he ran. He ran as fast as he could...not knowing how or why. But he ran, because Stiles needed someone...anyone.

He'd arrived at the opposite side of the road...and got a good old look at the heart wrenching scene. It was the stuff of nightmares. Crushed and buckled metal, oil..blood.

The familiar jeep was now contorted beyond recognition. The blue metal was crushed and folded in a way that clearly signalled a high impact collision. It was wrapped around the innocent tree on the side of the road, far from where it should have been...just in the dirt.

Dirt was good for absorbing blood.

...But, he knew who was inside. He smelt rather than saw the blood on the windshield, the cracks letting the blood seep through.

And so he had been across the road and on top of the car without much thought, ripping into it with his claws. He ripped off what remained of the roof...looking inside.

 

And then he really wanted to be sick.

 

The annoying loud and talkative boy was silent and immobile between two parts of his destroyed car, making him just another part of the horrible wreckage. The windshield was smashed to pieces, and Derek could see the glass impeded into Stiles face and neck.

But that wasn't all he saw.

He saw the broken and serrated steel Dashboard disappear into Stiles torso, blood staining the metal a dull red...along with the splatters covering the interior.

 

And Derek had stayed very still, very quiet....surveying the body with desperate eyes.

And then a a wet and shuddering _thump_ answered him.

Then he was on the ground, ripping away the side door and removing it from the tangled mess. He needed the boy out as soon as possible....because their was the slimmest chance that he may live.

And Derek wasn't one for believing in slight chances...but he would let himself believe just this once. Just for Stiles.

Because that was the only hope he had.

Derek eased the metal from around his limp body, securing him into his arms gingerly. He hissed, feeling the blood soak into his shirt as he lifted the boy from his wreckage.

And suddenly his eyes were open, the honey and chocolate wide and terrified.

And then he was screaming.

 

Derek laid him down on the gravel of the empty country road, holding him steady as his shrill screams pierced the air. He struggled to gasp at Stiles' flailing hand, trying to stop the boys convulsing with his own body weight, holding him down. He gripped it firm and harsh...before lifting the barrier.

And then Stiles pain was his.

...and it hurt. He grunted, head spinning from the sudden influx as he fought it down. But, at least now he knew where Stiles felt the worst. Not that knowledge comforted him at all...because it only managed to make this whole thing so much worse.

And so he held him as his cries simpered into keening and crying, body reeling from shock and confusion and terrible pain.

Derek's breathing evened, holding to boy to his chest as he stared stonily at the gravel. He held on to the boy as his nails stopped digging into Derek's back, until he stopped convulsing and his mind came back.

And because he was so close...so damn close...he could hear everything.

The rapid beat of his struggling heart, the laboured breathing that left his lips, the smell of his tears...the smell of his blood.

But there was something that was worse..

Because he could hear the sounds of his body dying.

He could hear the sounds of his broken ribs grinding together, moving every time he tried to breathe...And he could hear to sick gurgling of his punctured lung, wasting air and _life_.

 

"Stiles?" He groaned, fighting away emotion in favour of a clear head. "Stiles?" He tried again, holding the boy as he shook.

"D-Der...k?" He struggled, voice dying as he breath faded before coming back with this horrible wheeze to pronounce the syllable, voice clicking with the letter.

And Derek knew it hurt to speak...hell he knew it hurt him to breathe. And to live. Probably that too.

But he couldn't think about any of that. He couldn't afford to. He had to be emotionless, a rock. Something to stabilise their little pack human.

 

He looked around him, finding nothing but blood and destruction in his fruitless search. He had nothing with him but the clothes on his back, and anything Stiles had was probably crushed...just like his dying body.

Yes, Derek knew Stiles was dying, and he want one to kid himself. He knew...but he would do anything to stop it.

Because while Stiles was annoying, loud, chatty, over-enthusiastic and a brat...he was pack. He was apart of Derek's pack, of his new family.

And he couldn't loose anymore of his pack. He was already missing two limbs after Erica and Boyd. He couldn't loose Stiles.

Because Stiles was the one he had to protect. The one that he had to protect because he couldn't protect himself. He was the vulnerability in the pack, the fragile one. He was supposed to be the most protected, supposed to be safe at all times.

 

Humans didn't run with Werewolf packs...and he guessed this was why.

 

Because Stiles had been driving this thing for forever. And he had had to drive crazily more than once. And suddenly he just crashed, no pressure from the supernatural or anything.

And Derek refused to believe there was no supernatural input in this. Because Stiles would be the first one to get if somebody was trying to get to Derek. Probably rigged his car, the bastards. Just so they wouldn't have to get their claws dirty with the blood of a simple human.

But Stiles wasn't a simple human, thankyou very much. There was no way a simple human had managed to will his way through all this werewolf shit without much complaint. That took some fierce courage and a whole lot of loyalty...loyalty with was only usually found in his kind.

And Stiles was capable of it. Derek would bet that any other human would have buckled under the pressure...but a Stiles found a way through it. Always did.

But, nobody could find their way out of this. Especially if the supernatural were involved

But there probably wasn't anything Supernatural about this... if Derek was going to be completely honest with himself. This was probably just a harsh and painful twist of fate. A damned accident. Nothing supernatural about it.

 

And that angered him beyond measure.

 

Because Stiles couldn't simply die from a mere car accident. He'd survived much worse than that in these past months. This couldn't be the thing that took him.

And it _wouldn't_....Because Derek wouldn't let it.

 

He felt Stiles breathe heavily, wet and struggling. He looked down at him, hovering over his body

And it was bad...it really was.

Derek had seen injuries like this before, even in his own body. And he knew it was a bitch to heal...but he was a werewolf.

Stiles wasn't.

The gaping whole in his abdomen didn't even begin to tell the horrible story of his injuries. He was injured in so many different ways that Derek couldn't count them. His whole body was scratched, angry red lines running across his body, some still with glass still inside. Bruising was flowering all over his body. His chin, his neck, his arms...his chest. He could see it all through the tattered tee shirt and ripped jeans which barely held his dignity.

He arched painfully off the ground, spasms shaking his body occasionally. His teeth were red with blood, gritted against the pain...and possibly to stop himself screaming again.

Derek immediate took it away again, cringing as more rose up to be taken as he let go of the boys hand. He couldn't take all his pain, even if he wanted to. Because he needed to be level headed if they were both getting out of this.

His eyes were open wide, pain clear in those honey eyes. His pupil was large, indicating that his body was in shock. Blood - his _own_ blood - was splattered across his face, a harsh contrast to the clear and pale skin...which was getting paler as the blood left his body.

 

The worst wounds were inflicted on his most vital areas, obviously. Stiles had terrible, _terrible_ luck.

 

Derek knew that it was the worst on the inside, but tried not to imaging the utter destruction inside him. Because he definitely had internal bleeding and a punctured lung.

 

Which meant he didn't have long at all.

 

But, while the injury to his abdomen was less of a killer...it still would be a major player in his rapidly declining health. It leaked blood from his body and to the gravel like there was no tomorrow.

_And there probably wasn't going to be a tomorrow for Stiles._

 

Derek flinched, realising what he had to do. He raised his hand gingerly from Stiles's, bracing it against Stiles' shaking shoulder, feeling the tensed muscles and breakable bones beneath his hand. But he tried not to let himself think about that...tried not to let his mind wander to the harsher parts of what this was.

Because if he fought it off...maybe he might be able to function properly when it went to hell.

He had always gone for the 'shut himself down' option when presented with a choice. And this time, it was probably wise....seeing as the other option was to curl into a ball and sob.

He raised his opposite hand, letting it hover just over Stiles's belly, where the pulsing and leaking wound lay.

 

He gritted his teeth, steeling his resolve....and pushed down. His large hand covered the wound like it was meant to to be there, and the blood squelched between his fingers. Air bubbles rose as he pressed his hand, almost an inch inside Stiles torso in order to stop the blood. It didn't feel like he was applying much pressure...but he was a werewolf.

Stiles wasn't.

And Stiles screamed, loud and piercing wails that echoed through the empty forest. His screams where abruptly cut off by a choking sound. Giving Derek only seconds notice before blood was flowing from his mouth and he was choking on it. Choking on his own blood.

Derek moved his hand from the boys shoulder quickly, and used it to brace the boys back. He carefully rolled Stiles body on the side. He felt the boys convulsing and choking against his hand on Stiles's back, feeling the heaving and crying.

And he immediately dropped his barriers, watching thick black ink run up his in retaliation, giving physical form to the pain Stiles felt.

The boy slumped in clear relief within Derek's hold - blood still running down his chin - indicating that his airways were clear...for now. Derek had no doubt that more blood would fill in the emptied space in his lungs.

Derek just hoped that Stiles wouldn't drown in it.

Derek let his body stabilise after absorbing the pain, shaking it away. He gently eased the boy onto his back again, rolling him so he lay flat next to Derek's knees. He left his hand inside stiles torso, continuing to press down on the wound, even if Stiles' pain filled whimpers were the only thanks he got.

 

He hated feeling all this pain.

There was just too much. Too much inside him. Like a never ending pool which lapped up at Derek's heels every time he approached. And every time he took some away...there was always more that flooded into its place.

 

And he hated that he couldn't take it all away.

 

Not only would be die....but Stiles wouldn't get the help he desperately needed. And if he did that, he would slump over Stiles, cold and dead. And then Stiles would die alone.

 

And there was nothing worse than that.

 

But he could feel the warm blood pulsing against his hand, trying to fight its way from Stiles body. Feel the exposed organs flat against his palm, pulsing and moving with every shuddering breath that Stiles took.

 

Stiles was crying now, teeth gritted and eyes scrunched shut as he whimpered and moaned. But those tears escaped, running down his cheeks and to the dirt and gravel beneath them.

 

And it was at that he realised he couldn't save Stiles.  
Stiles was going to die here. No amount of pain leeching or blood eluding could save him.

And the other option was never going to be a option. Not without Stiles' consent. He would not be Peter. He couldn't. And even then it would be a 50/50 chance.

And Stiles life was _not_ going to chance.

Derek knew that he would rather die here, a proud human..than as a horrific failed mutation. And that's what would await him if Derek put this curse into him. No. He, after all this time of surviving as a human...he would die as a human.

 

Because at least then they would have a body to bury.

 

___

 

 

Derek watched.

He just sat by the boy as time passed, easing away the pain every-time Stiles was close to screaming.

 

And he didn't know if he could listen to anymore of that horrible sound.

He found himself becoming hyper-aware of Stiles actions and emotions, and because of this disturbing occurrence....he now knew when Stiles was about to scream.

 

The muscles in his neck tensed in a certain way, and his breaths shortened...becoming painful wheezing. But Derek didn't always catch it, sometimes Stiles just started screaming and crying suddenly, rolling and trying to get away from the hand inside his stomach.

 

But, on the seventh time that he had taken away his pain...the film of pain suddenly lifted from Stiles eyes, showing disturbing clarity.

 

His eyes stared up at the sky, responsive and aware.

Derek flinched, before leaning over the boy to gain his attention.

 

"Stiles?" He asked, staring into the boys eyes.

 

His gaze shifted at Derek's voice, snapping over to look at him suddenly...something disturbingly clear in his eyes.

Comprehension.

He knew. He _knew_ it.

He knew he was going to die here.

Derek grabbed onto his hand tighter as he heard Stiles already frantic heartbeat increase to a stuttering crescendo.

And then he had flopped back, pain overtaking him again.

 

______

 

And so it went on. Pain and relief, pain and relief.

 

But the relief never lasted long....and Derek could feel himself wearing down. And he could also feel Stiles dying.

 

He didn't know how. But it was just something around them, something hovering in the air and crawling under his skin. Because he just knew.

The Forrest around them seemed to quieten. Birds stopped chirping, deer stopped grazing. The wind died, and the trees grew still.

 

It was silence...even to Derek's ears.

 

He stayed still as everything stopped around him, watching everything. It was like was frozen in time.

Nothing and his life had ever been this quiet. Being born as a wolf ensured he would never know what silence sounded like.

Now he did.

And he hated it. He hated with every fibre of his body.

Because it was like the forest was apologising for Stiles death. Acknowledging his death and apologising for the fact that he had to die.

 

He didn't want an apology. He wanted Stiles to live.

To be the complete idiot he was. To go through life, annoying Derek every step of the way. Derek wanted him to be in the pack, lifting the spirits when they died and fighting with more loyalty than any wolf Derek knew. He wanted Stiles to throw causal sarcastic remarks at him. He wanted Stiles to piss him off at least twice a day. He wanted to hear him wine and complain about how stupid their plans were. He wanted Stiles to have those petty and unproductive sass fights with him.

He wanted Stiles to _live_.

He wanted this more than he had wanted anything in his life. He wanted Stiles to stop dying. He wanted his family to come back to him. He wanted everyone to stop falling all around him.

 

He just wanted everyone to stop dying.

 

Be used that was all he had ever known. All he had done in his life was learn how to cope with a loss, then deal with another. And then another.

 

Grief, loss, mourn.

Over and over.

 

And he wanted it to all stop. He wanted everything to just _stop_.

 

He threw his head back, an achingly raw and mournful sound ripping from his vocal cords and through his throat. It pierced the air with such intensity that it echoed through the silence, spanning around him and bouncing off the foliage and trees.

And then it faded away...returning to that hateful silence.

He grasped Stiles hand again, easing the boys pain and adding to his own. Just take and take and take.

 

Because it was the only thing he could do.

 

....and it was a shame nothing could take away his own pain.

 

__________

 

Stiles giggled suddenly.

 

Derek flinched, the silence breaking audibly and throwing him back into reality.

He almost ripped his hand from inside Stiles torso as he jumped, before stopping himself. Giving the boy more pain was the last thing he wanted to do.

He watched Stiles, whose mouth had spread into a haunting grin without Derek's notice. Blood coated his teeth as lips, shining sickly as the sunlight graced the crimson.

"Bl...blod...bloody...." he began through his teeth, body heaving and shaking even when he kept his grin in place.

 

Derek immediately took his pain away.

 

"Bl-bloody...f-fan... _tastic_ " he heaved, spitting and spraying blood as breathed.

Derek shut his eyes for moment, giving himself a moment of reprieve from seeing the dying boy.

 

This was it.

 

He could feel the pressure coming from under his hand weakening, the blood not fighting as the heart slowed down. The organs beneath his hand rolled against him slower now, almost shuddering as his body began to shut down.

 

Stiles giggled again, sharp and broken. It was a horrible grating sound, achingly hollow and dying.

 

Derek felt his own heart sieze as he understood the sound.

 

Stiles knew. He was completely aware that he was going to die here. On the gravel, next to his smoking car and with Derek Hale hovering over him.

 

He was going to die....because of a car accident.

 _A car accident_.

He'd survived werewolves, a kanima, hunters, demons, witches....Everything you can think of, he'd survived.

Except this...except _this_.

A _f*cking_ car accident.

This was all he had live up to. His whole life...governed by this moment. Every single thing he had done in this wacky life had led to this.

Every moment....every second.

 And all it was a car accident.

 

...Derek could understand his frustration, in the very least.

 

"St- _stupid_." Stiles spat, breathing laboured and body shaking, a cold sweat building in his forehead.

 

Derek smiled sadly, gripping the boys hand tighter....so he knew that Derek was here.

That he was not alone...that he would never be alone.

Not even in death.

 

He giggled again, blood running down his chin as he smiled brokenly. He continued to giggle, even as the blood congealed on his neck and continued to run from his mouth.

 

He started choking on the blood, heaving and crying while he giggled.

 

And Derek just let him.

 

His giggles haunted him, echoing around him in the light of the darkening sky. The only sound in the silence, portraying tragedy and insanity.

Stiles's body started convulsing, suffering and shuddering. Derek went to ease his pain once again, even as the blood continued to flow.

And he just laid there, eyes staring out across at his jeep. His giggles shook his body, and it escalated in full satanic laughter.

Then the high pitched keening joined in...making a haunting symphony of pain and death. He keened, body growing still on the ground and his bright pain filled eyes turning glassy.

And then it cut off.

....And then there was nothing but silence.

It reigned all around him, white noise filling his ears and consuming him.

There was nothing but _silence_.

And then there was a howl. A heart wrenching, earth shattering howl that spoke more than a thousand languages...becoming universal with the horrific sound of pain.

 

Before it was abruptly cut off....

More blood splattered to the gravel.

And one body became two.


	2. Alpha Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek could remember the last time he saw Stiles Stilinski. 
> 
> And he had only been alone for ten minutes...just ten.
> 
> Now all that was left was a horrible mess on his bedroom floor.

Derek could remember the last time he saw Stiles Stilinski.

The boy had come to him when he was at his weakest, when he wasn't in control.

It was in the days after Derek had been forced to kill one of his own...to kill Boyd. And then, straight after that, he found out that his other missing pack member had been dead for a long time.

He had lost half of his pack in one night.

And Derek didn't know what hurt more. The fact that they were dead....or the pain in his own heart. Aching now that two deep bonds had been physically ripped from his body.

And then Stiles had been there, with his offers of peace and companionship...Derek had initially rejected him, of course.

But Stiles was used to rejection.

And he kept trying, appearing at Derek's loft night after night. Speaking to him through his door for hours before he finally left, ready to return the next night. And eventually (sooner than he would have liked) he let him in....Just was fed up with the hurt and the lies. And he let him in.

 

And it had been both the best moment and worst mistake of his life.

Because he had found companionship in Stiles that night. The comfort of pack without the werewolf, which was exactly what he needed.

He didn't need the scent of another werewolf to remind him of what he lost.

But he was there. With his bright eyes and graphic tee shirt. Offering potato chips and soda. And they had sat in his living room for hours. Not talking much but basking in the cool comfort of each other's presence.

But that night was also the night he would regret until his dying breath.

Because it was that night, that precious and wonderful night....that had led to this horrible mess on Stiles Stilinski's bedroom floor.

A horrible, bloody mess.

 

Because he'd let Stiles in. Let him into his precious territory, let him come into his home.The place nobody else had been for days.

And the Alpha pack had not missed his scent the night they searched Derek's loft. They'd smelt him on the upholstery and in the air.

...and they had come for him.

 

They had decided to get Derek where they knew it would hurt. Because they knew that because Derek had let Stiles into his loft during his mourning...they knew that Derek cared for him. Knew that Derek would look after and protect him no matter what.

So they had come for Stiles.

He'd only been alone for ten minutes...just ten. No more. And in those ten minutes, he went from such a lively boy to this.

 

All that was left was a horrible, bloody mess

No more bright eyes....they were dull and lifeless.

No more graphic tee-shirt...because that was torn to pieces and lost amongst the mess that had been Stiles' skin.

 

Derek had heard him scream. Heard him screaming all the way across town.

And it was only in that moment that he had found he'd been listening to Stiles for almost a week. Listening to everything he could from his loft.

Protecting him without even meaning to.

 

And now he knew...God, he knew. Because Stiles was _screaming_.

He'd been out of his loft in ten seconds. Running through the woods without much thought to the rain soaking him through. Eyes bright with fear. And when he was close enough...he had smelt it.

The blood. The horrible scent that would not leave him alone. The iron, the copper....the tangy stench that followed destruction.

And destruction there had been.

 

He had climbed up Stiles' house to his window still, shoving it open and jumping inside without much thought other than _Save Stiles_.

And he wished that he had taken more time. Just taken a moment to breathe, to think...to _listen_. Because when he got inside. When he had climbed into that room so hurriedly...

He realised that Stiles was already dead.

And all he had left was a body. All that there was left, was this horrible mess in the floor.

Just a horrible bloody mess.

The first thing Derek had noticed was that there was no heartbeat. As soon as he set foot in that room...it was completely silent. No breathing...no heartbeat.

It was in that moment where the world seemed to fade away...leaving silence in its wake.

Derek had never known silence...not like this. Not even when his whole family burned.

And he hated it.

But then he'd made the stupid mistake of walking closer. Creeping gingerly over the carpet just to check...just because he couldn't force himself to believe it.

And he knew that he should have known this routine by now.

 

Because Stiles was dead. The sixteen year old human in his depleting pack was dead.

And when he had realised. When he had believed it.

He felt a part of him die inside.

He could almost visualise the way part of his heart was blackening and dying. Joining the other two parts of his sectioned and shattered heart.

 

And he didn't scream, didn't cry out. It didn't cause pain like you would know. It wasn't something he could clutch at his chest and scream over. Not something he could curl up and sob over.

It wasn't like that...because it was worse.

It didn't hit him like a freight train. Didn't feel like getting hit by a car. Wasn't like getting punched in the stomach.

Because it wasn't anything like the pain humans knew.

And they thought they had it bad.

Because it was like poison seeping inside him. Deep and dark tar that was seeping into his skin and poisoning his whole body. It wasn't just emotional pain. Because it effected every part of him.

Because it was poisoning his soul...his wolf.

The most sacred parts of him. The parts that couldn't be taken and touched by anything. They parts of him that couldn't be abused...because they where his.

And now they were dying. Shrivelling up inside him at the prospect of loosing another one of his pack. Tearing limbs from his body and tearing away pieces of his soul.

 

Poisoning his wolf. Poisoning his strength....his will.

All because he had let Stiles in.

Because he watched him.

Because he left his loft.

Because he hadn't listened.

Hadn't done so many of the things that could have avoided this pain. Hadn't rejected everyone like he had taught himself to. Because he let Stiles in.

Into his home...and into his heart.

And now he was dead.

 

This was why Derek had taught himself not to love. Taught himself that the only person he could trust was himself.

 

Because once he let somebody in...there was always somebody to take them away.

Three teenagers had died because of him.

One was just a sick little girl, wanting away from her suffering.  
Another was just a broken boy, losing his loved ones to something he couldn't fight.  
And the other was just a lonely boy, empathetic to Derek's suffering and pain.

And all of them were dead. All of them were gone.

No more of the familiar click of high heels on his loft floors. No more of the brooding presence in his den.  
No more little human, sitting out the front of his loft. Leaning against his door and talking to him even if he wouldn't let the boy in.

 

Because they were all gone. All three had died because of him.

Erica had died in a vault.

Boyd had died on his claws.

And Stiles...Stiles had died alone.

Derek stumbled back, hitting the window frame he had onto just climbed through before.

Because Stiles had died _alone_.

The Sheriff wasn't home. He was working a late shift. And Stiles had just been in here, just home from Derek's...and then ten minutes later. He was dead.

They were _all_ dead.

 

But Stiles...Stiles had never wanted this. He didn't want to be a werewolf. Didn't want to become one of them for power or for anything. He just wanted to be Stiles.

And he fought still. Fought for Scott, for Derek...for everyone.

But now he was dead. All that bright boy had become was this broken mess on the floor.

And the mess was horrific.

Derek couldn't don't stop himself from looking. Couldn't stop himself from standing over that fragile body even as his soul and his wolf died inside him.

The blood stains stretched across the floor. Spreading out from him like a web of crimson. It coated his floors, some splattered on the walls where the lines of blood reached them.

And Derek knew that it meant Stiles had suffered blunt force trauma...somebody had taken to Stiles with an _axe_.

But that wasn't the only thing that killed him.

Claws. Deep and horrible claws that stretched across his shredded skin. Both the skin and his clothes coated deep Crimson until he couldn't distinguish between them anymore.

But they had obviously added the axe in to make it so much worse. And Derek knew that the axe had been a present for him.

Because their aim had been to hurt him.

And God knows it did.

The claws had torn him apart. Slicing through the skin, muscle and organs. Running down his body and in some places, revealing bone. And the axe...the axe had butchered him.

His ribs were now only bloody splinters, leaving his heart and lungs fully exposed to his attackers. And _boy_ had they taken advantage of that.

His lungs were just clumps of tissue, held together by the strings of tendons and nerves. And his heart had just joined the fray.

 

Derek wanted to vomit. Wanted to scream and howl.

But all he could do was look. Just observe and absorb the damage the boy had taken.

Because that's all he could do. All he could do was look, observe.

He couldn't save anyone. Couldn't do anything to stop this cycle of death. All he had ever done was just stand over their corpses and cry.

Stiles could only be the same.

But he couldn't cry. His grief and pain was above the point where it could physically expressed...and, he had no tears left.

And in some aspect, he was glad. Stiles would not want him to cry over his cold corpse. To just stand and watch everyone else die while he mourned.

He would want Derek to be the Alpha.

He could not stand and cry. Would not weep because he'd lost somebody tonight.

 

He would protect what he had left.

Because he couldn't do anything else for Stiles now. He couldn't help him, couldn't save him. But, just because he couldn't save Stiles...

Didn't mean he couldn't save them.

The Alpha pack was coming for them. Coming for every wolf and supernatural being in Beacon Hills.

 

And humans too, obviously. Nobody would be above their wrath. Nobody would be safe.

And this was his territory, damnit. This was his land, passed down through the Hale line generation after generation. It was all he had left of his family, of his previous life.

It held all his memories. Of his family. Tahlia, Laura...everyone he'd lost. Of his pack. of Erica, of Boyd...of Stiles.

This was all he had left of them.

 

And he would protect the people and the land they had fought so hard to protect. What most of them had died for. He would fight for what was his.

 

Because that was all he had left.


	3. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was supposed to be safe. 
> 
> Supposed to be in bed, sleeping. Warm, comfortable and safe.
> 
> But was he wasn't. Because he'd been dragged from his bed in the middle on the night, dragged out into the cold and misty woods. He'd been in his soft and silky pyjamas, the light and warm fabric ripping and tearing into shreds on the forrest floor as he was dragged along, gagged and crying.
> 
> He'd been crying, the stones and buried twigs sticking up and scraping his skin as he was dragged along them. And he'd been taken into the middle of the woods, just on the border of the Hale property. Only a hundred meters from the Hale House.
> 
> Only a hundred meters from where Derek slept in his bed, his dreams taking him away from the memories of his family burning alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dudes, I've decided to make this labelled as STEREK. But, do not worry if you are not a fan, as it will be just as mild as its always been. And there will be other people featured in this too, not just Derek.
> 
> Thankyou for all the kudos and comments!
> 
> This ones set before Stiles's father knows about werewolves. 
> 
> Stay Tuned :)

Derek watched the sunset.

The sunset was beautiful like always. He was glad that he could watch it now without any memories resurfacing.

Because there had been a time when he hadn't been able to look at the sunset. Look at the burnt orange and bright yellow..Because he couldn't look at anything that reminded him of fire.

And he'd been _terrified_ of fire. Just seeing it sent him into raging panic attacks, burning him inside. And that only made it worst.

And so he avoided fire at all costs. Avoided it like the damn plague.

He was okay now, he guessed. He could at least look at the sun. But open flames, burning and crackling were still hard for him to see. And it still scared him.

He wasn't sure that feeling would ever go away. He was pretty sure, actually. The Fire was no longer only an emotional trauma, it was physical too. Staining and scaring his memories as well as his body. He recoiled at the sound of fire.

But fire seemed to always find a way back into his life.

And he really should have expected it to. Hell, fire was used in daily life. It was a tool that humans mastered. Humans. Even weak little humans could control and have power over fire..humans like Stiles.

Like Stiles.

Derek flinched, trying the pull his thoughts back into his body. But he was too far in now, and all his control was slipping through his fingers. Much like most things in life.

But he wanted control. Being an Alpha helped, really. It gave him a sense of purpose, a sense of pack...even if half the kids he cared for weren't even werewolves.

They were still pack. Acted like a pack, fought like a pack. They were a pack, his pack.

His family. His _new_ family.

And it would have been great. Would have been perfect, actually. If bad things stopped happening to them. Stopped finding them and tearing at them and their bonds to each other. Because in the supernatural world, nothing could ever be simple. Could ever be straight forward or somehow beneficial at all. No, everything had to hurt them.

Everything had to damage them, break them... _take_ them.

Derek closed his eyes against the sunset, the sun suddenly becoming too much. But, the bright red behind his eyelids didn't make it better.

Like everything he did, it only made it worse.

He stood up from the forests floor, turning away from the burning sunset and down the hill. Back to his home, and back to his life.

A life that he sometimes didn't want to return to.

Because yes, Derek had been suicidal. He'd actually gotten pretty close once, too. But, in his pain and grief, he forgotten that he could heal. And when he healed, he cried. Because he'd almost erased himself. He'd almost lost himself, and in turn, lost them. Lost them all.

Because he was the only one left to remember them. Only one that knew them and loved them... He'd almost let himself forget his family.

And it be a whole lot more simple if he did. And he could, if he really wanted to. But he didn't, because he didn't deserve it forget them. Didn't deserve that small relief.

Because it was his fault. And while he let himself mourn, he couldn't let himself _forget_.

Just like everything else he'd done. Every other inconvenience he'd caused or damage he'd allowed. He didn't let himself forget anything he'd done, wouldn't forget the grief he'd had caused.

...because everyone was grieving.

And it was because of him.

But somehow, it felt even worse than his own grief. Then his own loss of his entire family. Because this grief was because of his, their mourning weighted jut as heavily on Derek's heart as his own.

He was mourning one person, and yet it felt like hundreds. But, that wasn't the only weight he felt...because he also felt the weight of his incapability to protect the innocent. His inability to protect an innocent life.

...a life that ended because of him

Derek stumbled as he walked, staggering into a tree as his grief became physical. He gripped the bark, head braced against the tree. He closed his eyes, trying to push away the grief and the memories into his overflowing vault. Trying to shove it all back and keep it all _away_.

But the lightly charred tag in his pocket burned his through his pants and set its heat upon his leg, burning hotter than any fire.

He should have known. Should have paid attention to the outspoken hunter in Argents crew. The one who talked big but wasn't paid any mind. Because Derek should had known that people like that will do anything to get some response. And Boy, a response did he get.

Derek hoped that the bastard had predicted that this 'response' was getting his head ripped off.

Because that's what Derek did.

...because he was _supposed_ to be safe. Supposed to be in bed, sleeping. Warm, comfortable and _safe_.

But was he wasn't. Because he'd been dragged from his bed in the middle on the night, dragged out into the cold and misty woods. He'd been in his soft and silky pyjamas, the light and warm fabric ripping and tearing into shreds on the forrest floor as he was dragged along, gagged and crying.

He'd been crying, the stones and buried twigs sticking up and scraping his skin as he was dragged along them. And he'd been taken into the middle of the woods, just on the border of the Hale property. Only a hundred meters from the Hale House.

Only a hundred meters from where Derek slept in his bed, his dreams taking him away from the memories of his family burning alive.

Away from the constant hits he was taking just to stay alive. Just to survive. He'd been sleeping, comforted by his dreamless sleep. Warm, comfortable and as safe as he could ever be. Because there wasn't nothing coming for them at the time. He was enjoying their relative hiatus. With the calm and the quiet. The silence and the warmth.

 

...And then Stiles was burnt alive.

 

His pyjamas, like all pyjamas has that stupid tag. "Highly Flammable" it said. Highly flammable.

Stiles had lit up like a _f*cking bonfire_.

And his screams were what woke Derek. His bloodcurdling screams of absolute _agony_.

Sounds that resonated sickly with Derek's soul. Because he knew that sound, knew it. He knew it better than any sound on this earth. Because it replayed in his head everyday.

It was the sound of somebody being burnt alive.

But then the smell hit him. The smell of blood and flesh burning up in flames. And it hit him, a hundred meters away. Where he sat in bed, sat in his nice warm bed...smelling and hearing Stiles burn.

And then he was running. Running towards the screams and not away from them. Because, he would not be too late. He couldn't make this mistake _again_. Couldn't let somebody die because of his mistakes.

So he was running, through the cold forrest in the middle of the night. Running bare chested and bare footed, trampling anything in his path.

Because Stiles was _burning_.

And he got there, bursting through the trees to see the boy writhing. Just writhing on the ground, surrounded by flames. Bright and orange, dancing in Derek's eyes. Dancing with the dead. Stiles was dying. Stiles was _dying_. He was swallowed up by the fire, gasoline burning his clothes in a instant and turning onto his skin.

His beautiful pale skin, the dark moles that dotted it, his _eyes_...everything was _burning_.

And he was screaming.

Derek cried out, screaming for heaven or hell or something, _anything_ to help Stiles. Just to save him. To help him live. Because Stiles had to live. He _had_ to.

...And Derek was the only one that could answer his own plea. The only one that could help.

He _had_ to.

And so Derek summoned the last of anything he had. Any willpower to jump into the very thing he hated most on this earth.

But he did it, jumped on Stiles and smothered his body. Smothered his body and digging up dirt over Stiles burning hair, decimating the amount of Oxygen that the fire could latch onto.

Then it was out. The fire was gone, the dancing and taunting flames gone from his eyes. But, it didn't bring any relief to Derek as it should have had. Because now he only had the damage left behind.

And these years he spent, alone and grieving, were enough evidence to show that this was the worst part. The damage and the destruction.

He had to see what as left...what there was led to salvage from something gone so terribly _wrong_.

He sat up gingerly, only just registering the healing burns on his own skin as his adrenaline faded and his blood rushed back into his chest after he squeezed it so hard against Stiles, hoping and praying that it could do _something_.

He sat up, climbing off the boy. And could hear that Stiles was still alive, which only gave him hope for the smallest of seconds.

Because after that single moment of mounting hope... He'd looked down at Stiles.

And then he'd vomited off to the side, dry heaving as his heart went up, clogging his throat. Because it was horrible. Absolutely sickening. Everywhere was burnt. And it wasn't and exaggeration.

Everywhere... _every single thing_.

Not a single inch of Stiles skin was spared. Everything was red and blistered, tight and _painful_. His clothes where gone, only the fabric of his shirt was still around his throat.

The fabric of the stupid pyjamas. Stupid comfortable pyjamas with its f*cking warning tag still there. The "Warning, Flammable" laughing at him.

Yeah. He was f*cking flammable alright.

Stiles had been like a fire. Burning hot and fiery with his sarcasm and humour. He could be called flammable.

But Derek would never be able to appreciate that. Never be able to think of Stiles as bright and burning. Because now every single synonym of fire would make him only be able to remember the destruction it brought, not to describe the passion and life the boy had had.

Had before the literal, _physical_ fire came in a took it away.

And it did, it took everything.

Even his eyeballs were not spared, the beautiful and healthy golden brown decimated completely. Completely and horrifically. 

...And he was still f*cking _alive_. Still _suffering_.

 

And Derek had many a time thought about wanting Stiles dead. But, this time...he _really_ wanted him dead. Wanted him gone.

Because Stiles should be allowed to escape pain. Be able to let himself fade away from the grief and suffering. Because he had never done anything wrong to warrant his stay. Derek tried to find a place on Stiles skin that wasn't blistered, but he gave up with a bite to the inside of his cheek, placing his hand gingerly over Stiles' skin.

And began to take away the pain.

Derek felt the pain flare up everywhere. His whole body felt like it was on fire...literally. It lingered for a few moments, before fading away.

But it had done its damage. Shown Derek what it felt like to be burnt alive.

 

And he should have known, seeing as everyone around him seemed to light up in flames. He should at least know the way it felt for your entire body to blister. To have your sight ripped from you as it burned away at your face, sucking greedily at the juices of your eyeballs as they licked up in flames. The way it felt to have fire ripping its way further and further into your body, eating away set you until there was nothing left. Nothing left to fuel the fires of hell.

But he hadn't.

...and he guessed that was because when his family burned, they were dead before he could get to them.

Because in death, pain left the body...For you could not help somebody that was gone. But he could help Stiles. Stiles was still here for him to help. He could do something for him, the opportunity that he never got for his family.

But somehow, that made it worse.

Because now, Derek knew exactly how it felt. How it felt to be covered in gasoline and lit into flames. Knew how it felt to die from the burning flames. Because Stiles was dying. Right here, right now.

 _Stiles_ was dying.

Stiles Stilinski, the boy with a hidden name and a hidden side. A boy that was so open and yet so reserved. So loud...but could be so damn _quiet_.

Because he was silent now, his body reeling and shaking from the shock. Body protesting and fumbling...but no sound left his lips.

Derek had always told him to shut up...and now he had.

But this time, all Derek wanted was to hear him _speak_. Hear his voice tell him that everything was going to be okay. That Derek was not going to be left all alone again.

Tell him that it wasn't his fault that he'd been ripped from his bed and burned on Derek's property. Tell him that the Hunters hadn't actually targeted Stiles because of him. Tell him that they hadn't picked Stiles because they knew it would hurt him the most.

Tell him that it wasn't his fault...that Stiles wasn't dying because of him.

But Stiles would never tell him. And even if he did, Derek would hear his heartbeat change with the lie. Because they knew it was true.

They knew that this was all done for a reason, for a purpose.

Kate's fire had been all madness and revenge, burning and dancing and _laughing_. But, this fire was cold and calculated. Planned and set out. Hard and _silent_. Because there was no manic laughter, none of the joyful cries that haunted him to this day. None of that.

Only silence.

The forrest around them was still chittering with small life, but that was life.

This was a moment of death, so nothing else mattered. Because Stiles was silent. His heartbeat was silent. His body was silent.

...his heartbeat.

Derek flinched, wrenching himself out of his thoughts. He looked fearfully down that boy curled beneath him. Looked at his burnt and decimated features, barely reminiscent of the boy he was.

And Derek frowned, not moving and inch as he stared at Stiles. The heartbeat was silent.

...there was no _heartbeat_.

His heart wasn't beating. His lungs weren't feverishly pulling in air. His body was still hot to the touch, the fire still burning in his veins.

He was _dead_.

Derek cried out, grabbing at Stiles and searching for some damn sign. Some sign to tell him that his fricken depressive thoughts (that he'd _always_ been dwelling in, according to Stiles) did not draw him far enough away to miss this. One _damned_ sign to tell him that Stiles hadn't just died in his arms without his notice.

 

But he did.

 

But Derek couldn't believe that. Not when Stiles death should have been as loud and exuberant as his life. There should have been tsunamis and earthquakes. Should have been fireworks and falling stars.

Because Stiles death was supposed to make people stop. Make people stop and stare. Make people realise something, _change something._

Make it that the world was a better place because of his sacrifice....Make a charity, name a _f*cking building_ after him.

He'd like to say that all of this was true. Like to say that something changed because of the grand life that had been taken away. Like to say that Stiles death meant something to the world.

...but it wasn't.

Because his death was so silent and so quick...that the person holding him didn't even _notice_. Didn't even notice that he died. That his soul left him, that his body that had once held so much joy and _life_....had only become a shell.

That the body in Derek's arms was no longer Stiles Stilinski.

And he wouldn't be able to tell the authority's Stiles' time of death. They would ask him "how the hell didn't you know when you were holding him?" And he could only answer with the truth.

"Because I wasn't paying attention."

 

And his father...God. His father would never know why. Never know when or why his son was taken from him. Because Derek couldn't give him the answers, not when Stiles had worked so hard to keep them a secret from him.

He would not endanger Stiles' father. Not endanger another human being, another innocent life. Because Stiles had been innocent...had been protected.

And now he was dead.

He was _f*cking_ dead. Right here, right now...under his _nose_.

And all of it....everything single part of this damn affair-

Of the fire.

Of the burning flesh.

Of the shuddering body.

Of the departing soul

-it was..All. His. _Fault_.

He howled out loud, more primal and feral than any werewolf sound. Than any sound...Because the body was not supposed to know pain like this.

He howled into the night, neck bared to it so it could take him too. Take him away from the fire and the silent night, echoing only his howl of utter despair. Take him away from the pain. And from the tag in his hand. That tag that has been on the charred remains of Stiles' collar.

Telling him that it was "Flammable"

That it was flammable.

That Stiles was flammable.

That Derek's heart was too.

Because, yes. He needs to be told. Needed to be reminded that it was _flammable_. Needed to make sure that he knew. That he knew that he would never escape the flames.

The flames of anger.

The flames of grief.

The flames of mourning.

Or the flames of _death_.

Because he wasn't escaping. Wasn't getting out or getting away. He was only going to stay alive, walking through his shadow-kissed life....the chains of death and mourning weighing him down.

Because he was going to live with this. Live with all of this. Live with it until he was old and grey. Live with it until his body gave out and his soul left his body. Only then he would find release, only then would be allowed to move on.

 

But then, he would move on though. Move on to never, ever, escape the burning flames of _hell._


	4. Nogitsune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's been fun, hasn't it?" Stiles said, and Scott could feel the blood splattering from his lips onto Scott's neck. But he nodded, biting his lip and scrunching his eyes. 
> 
> "It's okay Scott...it's all okay." Stiles said dreamily. He was delirious, a high and breezy note to his tone of voice. And Scott knew it wasn't real, knew Stiles was in another place.
> 
> But he cherished it. Let his voice resonate inside him and calm him. It was all going to be okay, because Stiles said so.
> 
> And, in retrospect...he probably went along with it because it was the calmest Stiles had ever been since his mother left them.
> 
> ...Because he wasn't in pain anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour :)
> 
> Thankyou P_Alyese for your reviews, here's a new chappie just for you.
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> SPOILERS: End of season 3 spoilers.

"They'll write a book about you Stiles, a _whole_ biography of your adventures and achievements" Scott said, carding a hands though Stiles hair as though he was trying to comfort him.

But his hand was shaking.

"They will have a whole chapter on how you defeated the Nogitsune. How brave you were." He continued, one hands still in Stiles hair but the other disappearing into the darkness between them.

Stained to the wrist in blood.

Stiles smiled up at him, but Scott knew he was only humouring him.

"They will talk about how you were a hero!" Scott said, eyes firm with determination.

But Stiles smiled faded, and he only shook his head. Scott watched him, feeling a stab to his own chest.

"I'm not a hero Scott."

"Yes. You are, Stiles. You are." He said, feeling the rise of shock and grief inside him. Stiles saved him. He saved everyone. He saved this whole town.

He saved their home.

Stiles huffed, but it sounded more like a wheeze. He looked away from Scott for a moment, fixing his breathing again.

"It will be 700 pages of pure Stiles. All in size 8, so they can fit all your awesomeness on it." Scott grinned, picturing it in his head. Listing all the details and features. Trying to keep talking.

Because if he wasn't talking he would be screaming.

 

"It will have all your plans and ideas. With diagrams, lots of badly drawn diagrams. I could draw them myself. Give it some character." Stiles wasn't even nodding anymore, just blinking to show he was listening.

"And it will have all your quotes. All the cool ones. And all your sarcasm. But we might need about fifty pages just dedicated to that."

Stiles stiffened, and Scott stopped talking for a moment. Watching his best friend carefully.

 "Scott" Stiles said, angst clear on his face. "Nobody cared what I had to say when I was alive. And nobody will care what I had to say after I die."

And Scott winced. Stiles did talk a lot. And sometimes it wasn't really helpful. He could admit that more than once he'd hoped Stiles could just be quiet. But now he wanted to hear him more than anything. Hear him so he would have something to remember Stiles by. Remember him by something that wasn't this.

Because he had enough blood staining his memories as it was.

 

"But they will Stiles. People will care." He reassured Stiles, hand buried deep into his thick hair.

"No they won't Scott." Stiles said shortly, struggling as he stabilised his breath.

" _I_ care"

And Stiles looked up at him, a piercing _knowing_ look in his eyes.

"...that because _you're_ Scott McCall. You're the True Alpha. You are the puppy with claws, claws used in protection of your friends. You love so easily, and you forgive even easier. You are too nice Scott."

He paused to cough, and it was a horrible grating sound that Scott will never forget. Because it was like his own asthma was. With something stuck in his throat.

But it wasn't inflamed flesh blocking Stiles' airway. This time it was so much more crimson and so much more _deadly_.

"You have to care Scott, you're my best friend. You care too much. Have you noticed the others? You're the only one that truly cares. And you only get hurt because of it....Allison..me. We are all the same. All we do is hurt you because you care."

"And I'm only hurting you Scott. I'm only hurting you because you are the only one that cares. I am a nuisance-" Scott breathed sharply, building a rebuttal. "No, _do not_ interrupt me." Stiles said before Scott could utter a sound, apparently on a roll which he could not stop.

But Stiles was known for not being able to shut up.

"I am a nuisance to everyone. I'm too weak to keep up with you all. I only drag you down. And because I'm so weak, the Nogitsune got in. It caused so much pain to everyone. Caused so much pain to you. Deaton told you, Scott. Told you that the only way was to kill me.. And you've always listened to him before. Why not now?"

It was clearly rhetorical, so Scott stayed quiet as he looked at Stiles, watching the droplet of blood run slowly down his chin.

"You didn't listen to him. You tried to save me. Tried to separate me from him. You should have just killed us both. I was ready to die Scott. I was _ready to die_." He kept going, tears fogging his voice and prickling his eyes.

"And I wish I did. But now I am, and now all it is a blessing too late, Scott." Scott inhaled sharply, tears tracking down from his own eyes. "Now it's only a nightmare. Because I should have died yesterday. I should have. You should have carried me up to him, and stabbed both of us through on Kira's katana. Should have speared me like a _butterfly_ " he spat, but Scott knew it wasn't directed at him at him, he knew Stiles was directing it at himself. With his inability to die when he wanted.

Because that was what his life had become.

And still, he couldn't even control that in his this life. This life where he was so powerless, even to his own fate.

"But you didn't. And I didn't die like I was supposed to. And Allison.." He gasped, just short of a sob as he powered on."...Al-Allison did instead."

"And if there was one thing it wanted from this life. It was that nobody would die for me. That nobody would die _because_ of me. I wanted to make sure that nobody got hurt because of something I was or something I did."

"But this hurts you, doesn't it Scott? This hurts you. Because you care. Your weakness is your heart Scott." He said, and lifted a shaky hand to rest it over Scott's heart. He stained the grey a crimson red, and it seeped into Scott's skin.

Scott sobbed.

"It's your downfall. People hurt others to get to you. And the easiest solution would be to stop caring Scott. But you have to promise me that you will never stop caring. This world is made up than more of just me and you. This world needs a good person with the right power to keep all the innocent people safe. They need somebody to protect them."

"Because your heart is also your strength, Scott. Your heart and your will is what dives you. It's what made you a True alpha. A _true_ alpha. Because it's true power Scott. It's what you are meant to be. You are meant to have heart. If you didn't have heart you would be no better than the Nogitsune. Your heart makes you the best there is, okay? The _best_. I know it hurts. I know you want to scream, want to cry."

"And so do I Scott." Stiles grated out, powering on through his pain. "I hate this. I hate that we have to make these choices. But something is always going to have to be sacrificed. Whether it be our freedoms or our teenage, mundane life. I want nothing more than to be able to sit on the beanbags in front of my TV and play FIFA with you. I want to be able to walk outside in the dark, and not be aware of what may be hiding within it. I want to live. I want to graduate!" He cried, hand gripping to fabric of Scott's shirt as he cried with him.

But Stiles let his sobs recede again, stabilising his breathing so he could continue.

"We will always have to sacrifice something for another. Just like good old Opportunity cost in Economics. I know Coach drilled it into your head. Something will always be lost, Scott. And this time...this time it just had to be me." Scott took his hand from Stiles' hair and put it on his chest, gripping at the fabric over his heart.

 And he felt it stutter.

 

"But promise me, Scott. Promise me you will _never_ sacrifice your heart." Stiles said, gasping. Scott bit his lip and sobbed at the sheer _unfairness_ of it all.

"Promise me!" Stiles almost yelled, echoing in the empty Forrest. And then he started coughing, gasping and crying.

And Scott nodded, closing his eyes briefly to spare his eyes the onslaught of pain as Stiles coughed up blood for his struggles. He bit his lip so hard, digging his teeth into the skin.

"I promise. I promise!" He cried, almost ripping the fabric of Stiles shirt. He tried not to move his other hand, tried to avoid giving Stiles more pain.

Pain....Pain!

He could take away pain. God, he was so f*cking _stupid_! He should be helping Stiles, he should be-

"Don't even _think_ about it Scott." Stiles gasped, but his eyes were steady and serious. "I will die on my own. You already hurt too much."

"But you are hurt!" Scott screamed in frustration, his mixed and muddled feelings solidifying into anger. "You are f*cking bleeding out! Let me help Stiles...let me help you."

"You can help me by standing up and walking away. You need to run, Scott. We are too scattered to be of any use to each other. They are still coming after us."

"No!" Scott almost yelled. He pushed himself firmly into the ground, feeling all the more like a stubborn child that didn't want to move. But he was. And so was Stiles.

 

Because they were still children in the eyes of the world. Still young people that needed to be nurtured. To be cared for...despite everything they had seen. Despite the many lives they had lived in the past months since Scott was bitten.

They were children. And they were dying? Well, at least Stiles was.

But Scott still felt like he was dying inside.

The Nogitsune was on a rampage. Destroying everything. Stiles had gotten caught in the crossfire by a flying bit of metal...stabbing him clean though the side. Scott had managed to drag Stiles away. Drag him into the Forrest where he would die. Because Stiles was going to die.

...just like Allison.

Scott gritted his teeth, pushing back his fangs as they threatened to spring forth. He wanted to help, more than anything. But he had to respect Stiles wishes. He had to at least let Stiles die the way he wanted.

If their friendship had meant anything, it was this.

But he had to draw the line somewhere. Otherwise, Stiles would push him so far away that he wouldn't even be able to feel. But he _wanted_ to feel. If he didn't, it would be like Stiles didn't mean anything to him. He couldn't just walk away from this. Couldn't just walk away from all the time he spent with Stiles. Couldn't just _walk away_ from all the moments they had shared.

Couldn't just walk away from him...from everything they had meant to each other.

He couldn't just let himself forget him. Forget this major part of his life, of his soul. Because they were brothers, in every other way than blood.

Because, sometimes...blood wasn't as thick as everyone thought.

Sometimes it was the bond with the people around you that where the strongest. His pack, his best friends, while not related...where much more important to him than his cousin in Australia.

Blood was thicker than water, but it wasn't as strong as his extreme _loyalty_ to Stiles. So he couldn't just walk away. He couldn't leave Stiles here to die and rot. He physically _couldn't_.

Not in this life. Not in this moment. Not ever.

Not to Stiles. The beautifully lively and happy boy with so many skeletons hiding in his closet. With so many monsters hiding under his bed. Not the boy that had been his other half. That had been the other half of his brain and of his soul.

"God...Stiles. Wha-what do I do?"

"I don't know either." Stiles admitted, breath hitching but his face showing explicit calm. "But...if you would hold me? I don't want to die laying on sticks."

Scott nodded tearfully, pulling Stiles closer. He held him to his chest, like he was trying to meld them together. And maybe he was.

Maybe, if they got close enough, Scott could make Stiles become part of him. Could give him the thing he took for granted. Give him his healing powers.

Scott had begun to take them for granted...but, right now...he wished more that anything that he could give them to Stiles. He would do anything to save him.

Because this was his fault, wasn't it?

 

No, not directly. And not last week or last month. He'd done this to Stiles long ago. He'd done it the day he was bitten.

Because he went to Stiles. He let Stiles in. Let him become apart of this life, when he physically wasn't made for it. All because he was too scared to let him go. And on that day, he'd nailed Stiles fate. Like the last nail in the coffin.

But Stiles could always read him.

"Do _not_ regret this Scott." Stiles said, hissing out the words that shook him with the effort to speak. "Do not regret sharing with me, the time we had. It was enough...It was more than enough for me. I be learnt more about things I have never dreamed of."

"...but I brought you into this-"

"Yes, you did" Scott couldn't deny the way those words stung through the piles of his grief suffocating him. "But I stayed. It's my doing. _My_ fault that I'm going to die. This fate was mine to choose. And I've always known the risks of someone like me in this life. But I chose it anyway."

Stiles stopped to cough again. And the sound was so deeply aching that Scott instinctively knew Stiles time was close. The predator inside him knew to sound of prey so close to death, and now wasn't the first time he wished it didn't.

"And it's been fun, hasn't it?" Stiles said, and Scott could feel the blood splattering from his lips onto Scott's neck. But he nodded, biting his lip and scrunching his eyes. He was glad Stiles couldn't see his face.

"Yes. God yes, Stiles. I'm so glad you were in it...you've helped me all the way and it's been so cool. But it would have never been good without you Stiles. And, it won't be..."

Scott had to stop. Tears were a demanding thing. Sobs even more so.

"It's okay Scott...it's all okay." Stiles said dreamily. He was delirious, a high and breezy note to his tone of voice. And Scott knew it wasn't real, knew Stiles was in another place.

But he cherished it. Let his voice resonate inside him and calm him. It was all going to be okay, because Stiles said it was.

And, in retrospect...he probably went along with it because it was the calmest Stiles had ever been since his mother.

...Because he wasn't in pain anymore.

Stiles breathed heavily against his neck, blood trickling into Scott's shoulder. Scott just held him upright, holding him close and secure as though it could protect him...even though the damage had already been done.

 

It was only a few minutes before Scott felt the first sob seize Stiles. The muscles in his back tensed and stained with the pain his body was expressing. His cry echoed loudly in Scott's ears...but he could only close his eyes and hold Stiles tighter.

His time to cry was over...and now it was Stiles turn.

But he pretended not to notice. Not to see Stiles as his weakest. It was a Bro-thing. He just held Stiles as he sobbed, breathing erratic and heart thundering.

". _....H-hush....little baby...don't you cry_.." Stiles mumbled, but the sound still pierced the still air around them, thickening his voice and making him sound so small. But Scott only realised what was happening as he sang the next line.

" _Mama's going....going to sing you a lullaby_..." He sang, voice quiet but hitting Scott like a train.

...Stiles was remembering his mother. Scott remembered seeing a home video that he'd found on Stiles computer. His father had been filming it, and Stiles had been only five. In the video his mother had been curled around him, stroking his hair as he fell asleep in his dinosaur bedcovers.

But, she had been singing ever so slightly, her voice light and airy...just like Stiles.

And it hit him so much worse, when he realised Stiles was trying to remember everything he could of her before he died. Because Stiles had promised to live so he could remember her. And now he couldn't...so he was going to die with her in his mind.

He was comforting himself with his own death.

Scott rocked slightly, throat clenching as he tried to keep the tears down. He dug his fingers into Stiles sides, wrapped around him as much as he could. Stiles legs were curled up in his lap, but his body was twisted to fall over Scott shoulder, his own hands weakly clinging to Scott's shirt.

Stiles kept crying, quietly singing his lullaby....as though he was singing himself to sleep. As he'd probably done millions of time before on the nights when it hurt too much. When the memories were far too strong for the medication to dull from his senses.

Stiles wasn't going to sleep...but at least he could float off into a place where everything was as it should be. Float off to dreamland, were imagination reigned and dreams were made.

It should be a nice place for a boy like Stiles. With his imagination so big and his mind so large..

 

And he was. Scott could feel Stiles leaving him, floating away. He didn't know how, but it might have been some subconscious thing from knowing Stiles for so long. He knew what Stiles' presence felt like, knew it well. But now it was fading away by bits and pieces, leaving it incomplete. Leaving Scott.

He fought off the urge to try and yell at Stiles to keep it together, like he wanted. He wanted Stiles to stay, to never leave him.

But Stiles had to go.

 

".. _Hush, little baby...don't say a word_...."

Stiles kept crying and singing quietly in Scotts ear. Scott didn't know if Stiles even knew he was here anymore. If he was even aware of his surroundings or the boy holding him. But that was okay. It as all going to be okay.

Because Stiles said so.

".. _..Mama's gonna buy you a_..." a sob ripped through Stiles. ".. _..a mockingbird_."

His voice was airy and light, so calming and yet so chilling. It was so soft and innocent, but so _cold._ Because, to Scott...its sounded like the song of _death_.

" _And baby when...that bird won't si-sing_." Stiles said, his breath only just nicking the edge of Scott's ear, even though his mouth was right there. Right next to it. His voice was so quiet...so small.

".. _Mamas g-going to buy you a diamond ri_..." Scott waited for him to finished the line. Ring. It was ring. Stiles needed to say _ring_.

But he didn't.

A low keening brushed his ear instead, a whoosh of breath leaving Stiles lips. And then Stiles body, which had been so wound and tight...went so limp. His entire weight rested in Scotts arms, head resting on his shoulder and his lips brushing against Scott's ear.

And then Scott whole world shattered.

He vaguely heard himself screaming. Not howling, screaming. Screaming for hell to swallow him whole. He felt pain rip his chest in half. Reducing him to tatters. He could only see Stiles's face, his laugh, his smile surround him and suffocate him. He grasped at Stiles, clawed at him. As though he could force him to come back.

But Stiles didn't come back

He heard himself scream again, felt people restrain him as he screamed himself hoarse. His cries of agony echoing through the forest.

Because Stiles didn't come back.


	5. Derek Hale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's rejecting it" Scott muttered quietly, realisation dawning on him.
> 
> Scott had always thought about Stiles getting bitten. What he'd look like with glowing Amber eyes and sharp teeth. But not this. Never this.
> 
> Not the pained expression and the blood. Not the sweat and the tears.
> 
> Not the death. Because that's were Stiles was headed. He was going to die.
> 
> And it was all his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all ready for some angst. 
> 
> And, Jem_Simmons, here's a Scott + Stiles one for you. I directed it in the Scot angst direction for your feels :3
> 
> Enjoy!

_Bitch_.

Stiles swung his bat at Kali again, and once again, hit only air.

He didn't even know why he was fighting. He couldn't even fight. He was human. She was a alpha werewolf. He was fighting a alpha werewolf.

What the _hell_ had his life come to?

Only a few months ago he was just kicking around Beacon Hills, causing mischief with his main man Scott. And now he was fighting with his _friends_ \- Plural, Shock horror - against a Alpha pack of werewolves. And half his friends were werewolves.

And he was in a werewolf pack.

What the actual shit.

 

But Stiles did this often. He usually just blanked out for a bit and thought about how psychotic his life was.

But now was really not an ideal time.

He jumped back just in time, feeling Kali's claws slice through the air near his neck. He knew he wasn't actually doing much else than entertaining Kali, but he couldn't just stop. It was against every instinct in his body, every fibre of his being.

He wanted to run. Wanted to engage his flight response and get the hell out of here. But he couldn't. Not when his friends were fighting beside him.

If he pissed off, one of them would have to fight off two werewolves. Because Kali would go after one of the others. And if there was something he wanted to avoid more than anything, it was seeing his friends get hurt. Especially if it was because of him.

Kali leapt at him,and he pushed back, fighting with only his survival instincts. He felt more than he saw Kali get past his defence and scratch down the length of his side.

He hissed, growling in a pathetic imitation and he swung his bat at her. And, surprisingly, it stuck home.

But Kali barely flinched.

He scrambled backwards on the Forrest floor, trying to brace himself up against a tree as a means of defence.

The wound in his side burned like wildfire, sending searing heat pulsing through him. He gritted his teeth, raising his baseball bat up in defence as he leant against the tree. Kali smiled at him, before she laughed. Loud and cackling.

And he couldn't help but feel offended.

She began stalking towards him, long toenails gouging marks in the dirt and piercing leaves on the floor. He pulled himself up into a imitation of standing, leaning against the tree as his side burned. He held the bat out, but it trembled in his hand.

She was only a meter away when a black blur came and full on rugby tackled the hell out of her.

And Stiles mustered enough energy to cheer, the relief placating him. He relaxed slightly against the tree, seeing as his most prominent danger had passed him by.

He watched the others fight a little more while he nursed his wound, pulling his opposite hand around his waist and over the wound to stop the bleeding.

 

But he couldn't help but feel a little dizzy from the blood loss. But he was generally okay. Not many would say that in his position, but he'd run with werewolves for long enough. It wasn't going to kill him. He just needed a little stitching up.

Maybe Lydia would play nursemaid. Now _that_ would make his year.

He smiled a little, slowly working his way to a stand as the battle started to fade down a little, the Alphas backing off for a unknown reason. And it was looking pretty good...until Issac was taken out. Stiles still couldn't get the _crack_ out of his head.

The alphas seemed to be satisfied with the particular blow to their pack, almost running with their tails between their legs when Derek roared.

"Yeah, run you little bitches!" Scott snarled.

But just Deucalion smiled at him as the others ran off. Stiles stopped walking to watch him from the side, inching his way closer to the scene as Derek reset Isaac's bones. All because Stiles couldn't help but feel like he was going to say something important. 

"Oh but dear boy, We've already gotten what we came for." He said calmly, before his smile turned into the personification of insanity. "See you at the funeral."

And then he was gone.

Everyone looked around, confused. Stiles frowned, also looking around and checking his friends. He inched his way closer to the others, taking solace in his pack. They looked around, obviously counting them off.

And nobody was missing. Everyone was as confused as Stiles was.

Stiles opened his mouth to make a comment, before a keening noise shoved its way up his throat and out his mouth. He frowned down at himself, and everyone looked at him. He looked up suddenly, staring at them.

And then he fell.

But he never touched the ground, because Derek (being the closest) had caught his sack of potatoes for a body and held him off the ground.

 

He couldn't move all that well suddenly, and his dizziness had reached a really annoying crescendo. But he didn't feel much pain. Because he wasn't sure the pain in his side could actually be counted as pain. It was more of a dull, burning ache now.

Derek held him gingerly as Stiles lay slightly on his side, injured side exposed to the air. Derek lifted his shirt carefully, exposing his blood leaking injury.

And everyone hissed at the sight, even Issac looked pissed and hurt from where he sat.

"I'm okay, aren't I Derek?" Stiles said, looking up at the Alpha of his pack and breaking the tense silence. He could feel himself shivering, but not from the cold. He couldn't feel cold. All he could feel was the strange burning working its way through him.

"I am okay, aren't I?" He said, seeking reassurance. Because he was okay.

Wasn't he?

 

Derek looked down at him, face completely shut off. Stiles couldn't even get a peak and what he was feeling. But he knew he'd never seen Derek this hardened, this closed off, from Stiles and the rest of the world.

"Derek?" He asked, voice caught in his throat.

Derek seemed to be startled at his voice. As though he'd forgotten the scene before him. That he'd forgotten that Stiles was still capable of speaking. Of breathing.

And Stiles knew that was a sign that he was already grieving.

Stiles struggled in his limp and forlorn grip. He painfully rolled from Derek's hold, scrambling for purchase on the undergrowth as tried to get a grip on reality.

"I'm dying." He said suddenly, all movement stopping and his body going completely still as he realised it himself.

"No." He heard. And he looked up. Scott. With his puppy dog eyes filled with shock and fear.

"You are not dying Stiles. Kali's claws can change you, she's an Alpha!" He said, moving to his knees as he grabbed Stiles shoulders.

Stiles shook him off, trying to look at the wound in his side. He halfway sat, pulling his shoulder forward and craning his neck to see the damage. And it was bad. He knew the chances of him becoming a werewolf were increased by the depth of the wound.

But, it was also extremely rare to get changed by claws. And she wasn't really a proper Alpha. She herself had an Alpha.

His chances where looking incredibly thin.

But he couldn't afford to think about that. He had too much to live for. Too many things he still needed to do. Too many people that he hadn't said goodbye to.

 

He hadn't even finished his bucket list.

So he would grab hold of those slim chances, and use them as his rope to climb back into the realm of the safe and healthy.

And that could work, in a physical sense. But this world was made of contradictions and changing rules. The constant bending of the laws of physics and probability.

So it might not even be possible.

But that didn't mean he couldn't try.

 

"Well they certainly went deep enough." Stiles said flippantly, as lightly as he could muster. He heard Scott swallow behind him. But Stiles preferred to instead look at Derek.

Stiles had done the research with Derek. It had hardly been Derek's choice, but Stiles had forced himself in with the knowledge of the right places to look. Derek had no choice but to let him in.

But they had researched it together. Derek because he wanted answers about Kate, and Stiles, well, because he was _weird_.

...Maybe they would write that on his tombstone.

 

Derek didn't show much on his face. But Stiles knew the look of one already accepting the death of someone close to them. Stiles knew the look well, obviously.

He'd had that exact same face the night his mother died.

Stiles closed his eyes, blocking his view of the forlorn Derek. He couldn't have Derek's grieving on his conscience. He couldn't think about dying.

He could only think about living. Think about the things he loved in this world. Things that made him want to stay.

He could feel the burning in his veins. The burning which he now knew was the change, rushing though his bloodstream and infecting his body with the Lycanthropy curse.

It was only a dull ache. But he knew that changes would soon occur. The sudden influx of heightened senses. The expansion of smell, sight and touch.

And he didn't know if he couldn't manage that. He was already a generally weak human, not much of a werewolf candidate.

Just add that to the list of the odds that were stacking against him.

Odds that were thinning his already delicate rope.

 

______

 

Stiles lay back against Scott, who had a hand pressed firmly to his chest. Stiles absently watched as the black veins climbed up Scott's arm. He found it becoming his pastime as the change took over.

It was cool to watch the veins darken as his pain got worse. When his muscles clenched and the blood congealed around his nerves.

He felt himself shaking, the pain just short of unbearable as Scott took it away. He found himself growing concerned for his friend. Scott was constantly absorbing a massive amount of pain from Stiles.

"Scott.." Stiles mumbled in the quiet. Derek had moved off with Issac to the tree line, watching with sad eyes. Lydia and Allison stood together over Scott and Stiles, clutching onto each other.

"Stop it." He began. "You can't afford to loose your powers."

Scott blanched behind him, his grip momentary tightening on Stiles arm.

"No...I can't." He said, voice thick with desperation. Stiles thought he may be realising Stiles' real chances too. "I can't afford to loose you either."

But Stiles just looked at him sadly.

"...Well, today is a day of compromise, Scottie boy. Let go before you hurt yourself."

Scott still refused, instead looking up from Stiles to look at Derek. Clearly trying to avoid this conversation. He saw Stiles look at him knowingly in his peripheral vision.

 

"Why can't we move him? We should move Stiles to your house, let him change comfortably."

But Stiles was beginning to think that everyone else but Scott, knew that there was a higher chance of Stiles dying comfortably instead.

Derek didn't reply, and neither did anyone else for a moment. Until Lydia spoke up, voice quiet and careful.

"Yes. We should get out of here."

Stiles looked up at her and caught her eyes for a moment. He smiled in thanks, but he knew his bloodied face and split lip did nothing to appease her. Still, he had to get points for trying.

She smiled back, small and quiet. So different from the proud and boisterous Lydia he was used to. But everyone had to have their moments. He was sure his death (or maybe not?) would classify as one.

Maybe, maybe not.

He didn't really know anymore.

_______

 

"He's rejecting it" Scott muttered quietly, realisation dawning on him.

He'd always thought about Stiles getting bitten. What he'd look like with glowing Amber eyes and sharp teeth. But not this. Never _this_.

Not the pained expression and the blood. Not the sweat and the tears.

Not the death. Because that's were Stiles was headed. He was going to die.

And it was all his fault.

 

______

  

Then Stiles started choking up blood. Choking up horrible black blood that spilled from his lips like tar.

And it was all over. Everything they'd done. All the battles they'd fought.

It was all over now.

 

They taken him to the Hale House. He laid on Derek's bed, staining red and black blood though the fabric and into the mattress. Derek was going to have to buy a new mattress now.

...sorry, Derek.

And there was only silence, Stiles laboured and pained gasps filling the empty air.

"G-god" Stiles moaned. "S-some...somebody f-f*cking kill m-me already." He gasped out, keening as another wave of pain hit him.

Stiles hissed, as though he was in pain too.

And he might as well have been. He'd rather die than for any harm to come to Stiles. But it was too late for that now. Too late for just about everything.

Stiles was going to die. That was never going to change

They all flinched at this voice from their positions arrange around the room, curling up on the floor and leaning against the walls.

Scott still held him though. Held Stiles and comforted him as he slowly left them behind.

 

_____

 

And then Stiles was _screaming_.

His voice reached higher and louder than the human vocal cords should be able to muster. Screaming and aching and dying. His voice kept cracking and breaking, falling apart and being built again just so he could cry out because of his pain. So he could keep _screaming_.

And that was when Derek stood up.

Even Stiles fell silent at his movement.

Stiles was barely with them, eyes fuzzy and mind consumed by the unbelievable pain of his body fighting itself. Fighting the curse that couldn't be fought.

Fighting the curse that always won in the end. Wether it took you or changed you...it always won.

And it always took everything from you, even when it didn't take your life.

Because Scott was already bitten. Was already a werewolf, had already suffered his share. Had already rebuilt his life after it was spun on its axis. And yet, here he was again...the curse was once again taking everything from him. It was unquenchable. It could never be satisfied with the amount of pain it caused.

...and Stiles wasn't going to be around to help him get back up this time.

Because it was going to take him too.

 

Derek moved towards Stiles under the silence of the room, his footsteps echoing beneath the blackened floorboards where his family had burned.

 ...Where all their hearts were burning up too. Burning up in the flames of grief and pain.

Scott watched him approach, Stiles head resting in his lap. He eyes the man warily, unsure of his intentions. Derek avoided his gaze, crouching down beside Stiles' unresponsive body. Scott's confused gaze turned incredulous. Because why was Derek coming over? Why was he getting closer to death then he needed to be?

And then Derek looked up at him, honest and heart crumbling sadness in his eyes.

"No." Scott said, simple and straightforward. Because no. This was not happening. Derek was not taking Stiles away from him.

Issac came up behind Scott, a hand resting on his shoulder. Scott bared his still human teeth, his grief letting instinct take control.

" _No!_ " He yelled, too loud in the weighted silence. Derek put his hands on Stiles head, cradling it gently. He began to slide his fingers beneath Scott, making him release his hold on Stiles. 

"No!" Scott screamed, " _NO!!_ " His wail was shattering, frightening and saddening. "No! You can't! Don't you _dare_ , Derek!"

But his alpha refused to meet his gaze once again, gently prying Stiles away from Scott. Scott tired to grip him harder, but Isaacs arms came from around him and grabbed his wrists.

And then he was screaming too. Screaming when Stiles wasn't.

Because Derek was taking him away. Taking him away to do what Scott never could. Taking Stiles to t _ake him away._ Take him away from Scott. Take him away from his father...from the _world._

Scott was never going to see Stiles again.

 

He screamed out, trying to claw at Derek as the man gently lifted Stiles into his arms. But Isaac held him back, using his own strength to hold back the wild wolf. Stiles was unresponsive, his pain numbing him away. Immediately blood stained Derek's shirt as he settled Stiles in his arms, staining his clothes and his skin.

Derek carried Stiles away from him, and Scott's vicious fight dissolved into sobs, curling up on himself as Isaac held him. The others moved out Derek's way, not looking at him but letting their gazes linger on Stiles.

Lydia didn't move like the others, instead stepping in front of him, and Derek stopped his journey towards death to let her have a moment. She looked down at Stiles, a look of swirling agony on her face.

She smiled though, brushing the backs of her fingers along the edge of Stiles' cheekbone and brushing the tears from his cheek. She lingered for a moment, swallowing heavily before nodding to herself. She took her hand away from Stiles, head held high. But her hands shook as she moved away, Stiles' tear clinging to her fingertips.

And Derek kept walking, ignoring Scott's whimpering cries.

 

Scott watched through his tears as Derek disappeared though the door. Then Scott zoned out the rest of the world, letting his hearing follow Stiles when his eyes no longer could.

He listened to Stiles' short breaths. His fast heartbeat. His soft cries and the whimpering tears. He heard Derek move away from them, his feet crunching on the dead undergrowth.

He followed them until Derek stopped, his feet no longer crunched the ground beneath him. He heard Derek place Stiles on the ground, his own knees hitting the ground beside Stiles.

He heard Stiles breath hitch, but fade back when he felt Derek's hands around his throat. Felt the warmth that would soon fall away to death. Scott heard Stiles' heartbeat even out for the first time since this all began. He could almost see as Stiles body relaxed into the undergrowth, eyes flickering closed. Scott felt himself start to shake.

And then Derek whispered, the sad words carrying on the wind.

"I'm _so_ sorry."

But then a sickening _snap_ echoed through the air.

And Silence reigned. Filling up every space and every part of Scott's aching heart and soul. And then everything was too much. Breathing, screaming... _crying_.

It was all too much, because Stiles could no longer do any of it.

Stiles couldn't scream. Couldn't cry. Couldn't _breathe_. He couldn't do any of it. Not anymore.

Because he was dead.

He wasn't coming back. Wasn't coming to wake Scott up from this nightmare. Wasn't coming to his aid even though he was a simple human, wasn't anything extravagant or grand. He wasn't coming to aid Scott even when the odds stacked against him.

...And he couldn't help Scott anymore either. Couldn't dig Scott out of the deep holes he buried himself into. Couldn't keep bringing him back when he lost his way.

Because dead people couldn't help anyone, not even themselves.

Not anymore.

Because even in this world, even in this world filled with magic and things beyond possibility. Humans didn't come back. And Stiles was human.

...he was _never_ coming back.

 

 _____

 

Scott managed to keep his composure at the funeral.

But once he was home. In his home where he had spent so much time with Stiles. The familiar space where there had been so many memories. Of him playing chase as children, knocking over a vase and trying to craft glue it together. Or playing FIFA, Stiles almost throwing his remote as he eagerly shot a goal, his shout of joy as he scored.

Scott broke down, collapsing to the floor in the entryway. And then his mother was there, bringing his head to her chest like she did when he was little.

"What use is all this power if I couldn't even save my best friend?" Scott cried out, his mother holding him close. "What is the _point_ of it all?!" He screamed, wrapping his arms around himself as though it could warm up the darkness and the cold slowly killing him inside.

"There is no point to it. We can't save everyone." Melissa said quietly.

"But why couldn't I save Stiles?" Scott sobbed, his claws digging into his own arms. Melissa looked at him, with the sad _knowing_ look of a woman that saw death everyday.

"Because Stiles was never meant to be saved."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, also...and more idea for Stiles deaths would be amazing. 
> 
> Leave a comment or kudos on your way out if you feel so inclined :)


	6. Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott walked over to the small garden Derek had managed to grow in the past month or so.
> 
> It was very pretty. From everything between lilac and dark blue flowers...Coloured like the night sky.
> 
> Scott loved it. The pack loved it.
> 
> Even if the spiral in the middle of the garden hurt like poison. Like a scar that burned constantly at the sight. And yet they still built a garden around it.
> 
> He guessed that was because it was a form of punishing themselves.

It was Stiles birthday. His seventeenth.

"It's Stiles birthday!" He yelled with glee, jumping out of bed. He was just as excited for Stiles birthday as he would be for his own. But he hadn't thought it strange, because why wouldn't you be excited when it was your other half's birthday?

He was so _damn_ excited. Lately he and Stiles and grown apart a little bit. Allison and Kanima's and everything had somehow gotten between them. But not today.

Because after they had a fight last month, Scott had promised to make sure he had the best birthday yet. The biggest and loudest and _awesomest_.

It was going to be amazing. Because Scott said so.

He quickly threw on some clothes, grabbing the stuff he would need for the school day. He smiled widely as he caught sight of his present for Stiles that he was going to give him after school.

He was going to host the party at Derek's. Stiles didn't know it was going to be a party, because they usually went over for Pack Meeting's every Monday anyway. But Scott knew. He'd just hoped Derek remembered.

Cause that'd be _super_ awkward if he didn't. Whoops.

Scott ran down the stairs, not minding the silence that filled the house. His mother was downstairs, gingerly cutting toast. He watched the knife in her hands cut thought the toasted bread, the jam somehow getting onto her fingers.

He flinched, because suddenly the toast became flesh, and the jam became blood. Covering her hands and staining them to the core.

...he really needed to chill on the Supernatural stuff. His memories were starting to haunt him.

 

He smiled at her widely, and she looked up, shocked. He couldn't tell if it was his sudden appearance or his insanely wide smile. But he didn't care right now, because it was Stiles' birthday.

He was finally going to be Seventeen. Finally going to catch up with the rest of them. Finally going to get that one year older.

It was going to be awesome.

He kissed her cheek as he grabbed some toast, running out the door. He wanted to get there early. He wanted to make Stiles' locker all pretty.

He arrived earlier than he thought he would have, but excitement did that to a person. The hallways were empty, only a few teachers already at school. He almost skidded around the hallways as he sought out Stiles' locker. He skidded around a corner, coming face to face with the locker he sought.

He smiled widely, seeing the blank canvas we had to work with.

He quickly ripped the streamers and balloons he has stuffed into the small front pocket of his bag. He stuck the streamers and blew up the balloons with precision. This was going to be the big bang to start off this awesome day.

People started filling into the hallways when Scott took as step back to look at his work. He'd never been the most creative person, but even he couldn't deny that it looked awesome.

He walked away, going to his own locker and grabbing the books he needed for his first lesson. He turned as he heard a growl of anger down the hall, his acute senses buzzing at the sound of another wolfs distress.

Jacksons was down the hall, where his eyes were pined on the obnoxious locker. He stalked towards it, shock evident on his face.

"What..." Jackson said. "Who...who did this? Who the _hell_ did this?!" His voice escalated to a yell, turning around in a circle in front of Stiles' locker as though he was looking for a culprit. But everyone avoided his too-wide gaze and kept walking. Scott could only look on, confused. What did it have to do with Jackson? He should be in any way offended by Stiles locker, unless it was messing with the colour scheme of his outfit. He was just another person that had gotten between him and Stiles.

Today was about him and Stiles. He couldn't let anyone else ruin that.

He turned away to walk down the hall, just turning away as Jackson ripped down the decorations with a cry of rage. He kept walking as the other boy clenched his fists and lent his head against the locker.

He pretended not to hear his muffled sobs of raw anger and angst.

...Because Scott didn't have time to worry about him today. Today was for Stiles.

And _only_ Stiles.

 

...........

 

Scott didn't have any classes with Stiles today, unfortunately. He didn't have Chemistry or Economics. It was unfortunate that Stiles birthday fell on a Monday, but he couldn't help that.

But Stiles would be at lunch. He couldn't wait to grab him in the biggest hug ever and yell from the tops of his lungs. Announcing everyone that Stiles was now indeed seventeen. He wasn't the baby of the pack anymore.

He was a grown ass man.

Scott almost galloped through the halls, everyone casting him dirty looks when he grazed past them.

He swept his way into the cafeteria, and out onto the lawn as fast as socially acceptable, his foot bouncing with his hyperactive joy. He ran to the table where his friends all sat. He slipped into his place as the others all ate their food with minimal talk.

He looked across the empty space between Isaac and Lydia, a sad ache in his chest.

"Where is Stiles?"

Everyone flinched at him, giving him looked anywhere between shocked and angry.

"...Where the hell did your brains go, McCall?" Boyd asked, eyes narrowed. Scott ignored him, seeing as he wasn't going to get a answer

"We have to meet at Derek's tonight." Scott said, tasking the first bite of his lunch.

"...no we don't Scott. It's a Monday. We don't meet on Mondays." Allison said, hand on his shoulder and watching him carefully.

"We do today Allison." He said, shaking Allison's hand off. "Did you forget?"

Allison flinched, the others watched him like he was insane. He frowned at them, sipping his drink.

"Stiles' birthday, duh!" Scott said incredulously. He'd been talking about it for ages after his fight with Stiles.

"Scott..." Lydia said carefully, and he turned to her." Stiles is-"

But Scott interrupted her.

"I _promised_ him" he said clearly, filled with his resolve. Because he'd promised. He couldn't go back on his promise. Not this promise.

Lydia's mouth snapped shut, but then her eyes filled with sadness and pity.

And Scott suddenly decided he didn't want to be there anymore. He stood up, pulling himself out from the table.

"...see you guys there. And you better come." He said, before taking off and dumping the remainder of his lunch in the bin. Because he didn't need their stupid gloom to ruin this day for Stiles.

This day was for Stiles. And only him.

 

.........

 

Scott turned up at the Hale House later that afternoon, a box under his arm.

But he didn't go inside. He didn't even say hello to Derek that looked at him carefully through the windows. Instead he went around the side of the house, a small smile on his lips. He walked over to the small garden Derek had managed to grow in the past month or so.

It was very pretty. From everything between lilac and dark blue flowers...Coloured like the night sky.

Scott loved it. The pack loved it.

Even if the spiral in the middle of the garden hurt like poison. Like a scar that burned constantly at the sight. And yet they still built a garden around it.

He guessed that was because it was a form of punishing themselves.

 

Scott sat down next to it, setting the box on the ground. He smiled lightly as he opened it, unraveling the ribbon.

He lifted off the lid, finding the present nestled within the protective paper cushioning. He lifted it out, light in his hands.

He set the little batman figuring on top of the Spiral, on the left side where it was wanted. It was real merchandise, licensed by DC. Stiles had wanted one forever, with batman standing strong and proud. Scott smiled, feeling the wind swirl around him and past the flowers. They swayed lightly in the breeze, colours blending in with the late afternoon sun. He looked down at the ground, placing a hand down gently.

"I'm sorry we fought. And I'm sorry I never got to fullfil my promise...but I guess this is second best." He said, his smile turning sad. "Happy Birthday, Stiles"

 

Because Stiles _never_ turned seventeen. He never aged a day after sixteen. He never caught up with them...never would.

He was eternally Sixteen.

 

Because Stiles was buried with Laura. Derek gently lowering his body next to Laura, Stiles' blank face identical to hers. Each one of them placing dirt back over their fallen pack members, drifting down over their cold corpses.

Stiles had been human, but he had been pack.

So he'd been buried with family. Buried with all the old pack's bones and ashes, filling the earth beneath the Hale House. They were now ashes.

And so ashes Stiles would be.


	7. Suicide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles would do anything for his pack. Anything. Even when he wasn't physically capable of doing it, he would.
> 
> Screw the consequences.
> 
> He would stay up late, researching and planning. Connecting the red strings and willing them to turn green. Would stay up late with the memories of his friends dying, stay up late with the nightmares that plagued him.
> 
> He stayed up late for them. Gave away sleep, gave away time...would give away anything if it meant they could all stay together. So nobody else would have to die.
> 
> And he was happy to do it.
> 
> So, when Derek came up to him and said they didn't want him anymore. Said that he wasn't needed. Said that he wasn't compatible with them.
> 
> It hurt.
> 
> And he said it like it was for the best. Said it like it was better this way. But he didn't know what Stiles did to himself because of it. Because it wasnt better.
> 
> It wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg. This one really took a lot from me. Please take note of the chapter title. This is not for the faint hearted.
> 
> Thankyou for all the love. I'm really nervous because my first exam is today. Don't mind me.
> 
> P.S: I have been told this is the saddest one thus far. Be prepared my lovelies~
> 
> Enjoy.

_I can hold my breath_  
_I can bite my tongue_  
_I can stay awake for days, If that's what you want_  
_Be your number one._

Stiles would do anything for his pack. _Anything_. Even when he wasn't physically capable of doing it, he would.

Screw the consequences.

He would stay up late, researching and planning. Connecting the red strings and willing them to turn green. Would stay up late with the memories of his friends dying, stay up late with the nightmares that plagued him.

He stayed up late for them. Gave away sleep, gave away time...would give away anything if it meant they could all stay together. So nobody else would have to _die_.

And he was happy to do it.

So, when Derek came up to him and said they didn't want him anymore. Said that he wasn't needed. Said that he wasn't compatible with them.

It hurt.

And he said it like it was for the best. Said it like it was better this way. But he didn't know what Stiles did to himself because of it. Because it ~~wasn't~~ was better.

It was better.

 

 _I can fake a smile_  
 _I can force a laugh_  
_I can dance and play the part  
If that's what you ask_

 

Stiles went to school.

He did his tests. Finished his worksheets. Kept his head down in Economics...which Scott and the rest had conveniently moved out of.

For the best it was. For the best.

He did everything he was supposed to.

But he didn't eat. Not because of any real reason. Just the thought of having to find a new place to sit in the cafeteria was enough to make his stomach turn. Have to walk past them and slide onto and empty table. Have to keep his head down as ice shards settled in his heart.

 

So he sat in the toilet stalls, curled into a ball on the floor. And he counted his fingers, just to make sure this wasn't a simple nightmare. Check to see if it was something he could escape from just by waking up. To see that maybe on the off chance...he was going to wake up.

But he didn't wake up. There was nothing to wake up to.

...And it was for the best.

 

_Give you all I am._

 

Stiles dad was the Sheriff.

He was the top authority in crime when it came to criminal activity. So, when the pack faced a new threat, Stiles' father got involved.

And Stiles didn't.

He stayed home, watching his father drive away to meet up with ~~his~~ _the_ _pack_ at Derek's house. He wondered what they might be talking about. If Derek was being all Sourwolf-y and if Lydia was accurately taking over his position as researcher.

And it wasn't a big job. But it was Stiles' job. Or...it _had_ been. He wanted to know if the pack was any different without him. If his space on the couch was missed, if the absence of his presence did any damage to them like it did to him.

He just hoped they would all be okay. That they would all be safe; even after everything they might have done to him..

Because that was all he ever wanted.

 

_I can do it_

 

Stiles tried once to suggest that he really wanted come back.

He'd gone out the night of the big battle when his father was helping the pack. He showed up on the edge of the scene, mostly not being able to stand staying at home and knowing the people he loved were in danger.

But, when he arrived...he was shoved away. Derek came at him with burning red eyes and spitting insults about his stupidity and idiotic thrill seeking. Stiles didn't have the chance to explain that he really just wanted to make sure they were all okay. Because it was never really about the thrill seeking for Stiles.

He just didn't want anyone to get hurt.

But then Derek said the words that nailed him in the heart. Shut him down completely. Shoved him back down after he'd just surfaced from nearly drowning.

"Don't come near us again. We don't want you."

And Stiles was used to being told to go away. To leave people alone.

But it had never hurt as much as this.

 

_But I'm only human_

 

Stiles felt small. Like he'd shrunk a foot.

He felt so human. More human than he ever had in the pack. And that pack was supposed to be the thing putting him in danger, making him feel weak. He was supposed to be out of it so he could be kept safe. Away from the sights of any other demon that wanted a weak link to get into the pack. He was supposed to be out of any danger or harm.

But that plan still couldn't save him from himself.

 

_I can take so much  
'Til I've had enough_

 

Stiles wanted to go home.

Go to the place where eyes didn't follow him. Where he still had the ~~people~~ person that loved him. Where he was "safe".

Because he couldn't stand the humiliation of being shoved into his locker, dropping all his books and having them scatter on the floor like a fucking movie _schoolgirl_.

And to top it off, nobody came to help him, just brushed past him and sent him to the floor next to his books. He had no knight in shining armour. But that's where his movie plot line dropped out...Because nobody wanted to watch a movie where there was no happy ending.

Because his pack used to keep all the bullies away. Nobody could touch him nestled between Isaac and Scott.

But now, he had no protection for the realities of HighSchool. Of bullies, picking on weaker boys with frames that got skinner by the day. With dark shadows under his eyes and cheeks that lost their fullness.

He was all on his own.

And that hurt more than any wound he could of gotten because he was in the pack.

But it was alright. Because this _was_ for the better.

 

 _'Cause I'm only human_  
_And I bleed when I fall down  
I'm only human_

Blood was never Stiles forté.

And yet, he always seemed to experience it a lot in his life.

From scraped knees to stabs wounds...he'd had it all.

Sure, Stiles didn't think he would have been stabbed if he hadn't been in the pack. The Nogitsune wouldn't have made him stab himself. But it would have made somebody else. Possessed somebody else. Anyone. Anyone at all. But it picked him.

And because of that, they thought it would be better to kick him out. Leave him even more defenceless than before.

Because, somehow...that made it all _okay?_

Made it all better? Closed his wounds like they never happened? Pretended his scars still weren't there? Shaded over the fact that he'd lost eleven pounds since it happened? That he'd made new scars of his own?

How was this _better?_

 

 _And I crash and I break down_  
_Your words in my head, knives in my heart  
You build me up and then I fall apart._

 

Stiles was drowning

He'd only just realised. But he'd been drowning for a long time. His grades, his sleeping habits, his self esteem. It had all been drowning...sinking.

And he hadn't noticed.

But he noticed now. _Yes_. Yes he did. Because everything rushed to meet him as his survival instincts kicked in.

But he wasn't scared, so he willed his adrenaline and fear away. He didn't need be scared of this. He wasn't sure what he was doing, but it just seemed right.

It was simple, really.

When you couldn't take away your pain, you took away yourself, so you wouldn't feel it anymore. If one thing wouldn't budge...something else had to.

And that something just had to be his life.

 

The thought of his own life becoming collateral would have been mystifying five months ago. Too large a deed to comprehend. Because lives were so large and all encompassing. Filled with everything that was _you_. But, Stiles could no longer feel that way.

Because lives weren't really measured by the years you lived. It was the _lives_ you effected within those years which made the difference. The effect you had on the world around you and on others hearts.

So, in the end, his life had become so small. So meaningless.

 ...Because nobody loved him anymore.

 

But he still loved them. But as he learnt, his feelings didn't matter. And unrequited love could only lead to broken hearts.

And his heart was broken long ago.

He didn't matter to the world. Nothing he would ever do would have any impact anywhere. He was just forever floating through life...hoping that one day, he might be _worthy_ of somebody's love.

 

But Stiles had never been patient. Especially when what he was waiting for, was never _actually_ going to happen. It was all just feverish dreams and wishful thinking of a boy that had lost everything.

So he didn't see the point in waiting.

He would much rather be gone. Be oblivious to the avoided gazes and whispered words. He would like to be loved. And there was only one person that still loved him.

But she was just out of reach, so why stick around? He just wanted to be with her again. To be encompassed in a warm hug. The hug of somebody that _truly_ loved him. Because nobody really loved him anymore. Sure, his father did...but part of his heart had died with his wife. He couldn't love Stiles anymore, not really.

 And then, maybe...he might finally feel complete.

 

Stiles smiled, laying back gently. The bath water was freezing, but he did that on purpose. He wasn't stupid, he knew this was going to hurt.

So he made himself numb.

And that in itself was a small victory, for somebody in as much pain as him. He couldn't feel his lower half anymore, but soon he wouldn't be able to feel anything.

He looked down at himself. At the scars and bruises. The suddenly extremely prominent ribs and tight skin. The things he'd received from this life, both supernatural and unremarkably mundane.

He was always hurting himself. And Derek had always joked that one day he was going to kill himself. And, kudos for that. Stiles was pretty sure he was becoming a seer or something.

...But what he couldn't guess was that it was going to be intentional.

 

Stiles ran his dripping fingers over the large scar running the length of his torso from where the Nogitsune stabbed him. He couldn't even remember getting it. Because he hadn't been him, hadn't made the decision or had control over his own body.

He never really had, anyway. The Nogitsune was just like a personification of the lack of control Stiles had over his life.

But he'd been okay. He just been healing, finding his footing, when once again Derek had _ripped_ the ground out from under him...letting him spiral into the dark abyss.

The abyss that swallowed him whole. Mind, body and soul.

What did they expect?

That he'd be fine? That life would just continue the same? That he somehow be able to get back at it when the ground had suddenly _disappeared_ from beneath him?? That he'd be able to climb out of the all consuming _abyss??_

He couldn't do that. He wasn't a werewolf. He didn't have supernatural powers. He was only human.

...But then again, that was what had got him in this situation in the first place. Because he was _breakable_. Weak, hyperactive. A simple human.

His life had been ripped from him in order to keep him safe.

 

But, this was him finding control. Making a decision that was completely his own. His decision. His life.

His death.

Because the word death wasn't so scary anymore. He'd been frightened of what it had meant his whole life, what it meant to him. When would it finally come for him? How would it take him?

He wasn't frightened anymore.

....it was more like greeting an old friend. Coming by for the last stop, the last leg of the journey. His last pit stop. Before moving on...after his Mom, Boyd, Erica, Allison. It had come to finish what it started...all those years ago. When he was just a little thing with big eyes that thought so highly of life and so horribly of death.

Now it was all different shades of grey. Life wasn't so good and death looked a whole lot more appealing.

Death was not going to _take_ him like it took his mother. He was not going to wither. Not going to beg. Not going to cry.

...Because he was going to let it.

Let it carry him away, away from the hurt and pain, and into the arms of his mom.

He'd done his bit, finished early. He wasn't needed anymore. He'd completed his part. There was nothing holding him back anymore.

It was time to go.

 

Stiles smiled widely, his eyelids flickering shut...shutting away the honey-brown from the world one last time. He let his hands sink to the bottom of the tub, encompassed by the cold. He lifted his feet letting himself sink down into the tub slowly.

He thought of his mom. Or her smile. Of her laugh. Her voice. Her smell.

He wondered what he might say to her. If he would go by his usual pace and try to tell her everything at once. But he guessed he wouldn't have to. There wouldn't be any pressure, any sort of time restrictions.

 

He had all the time he could ever need.

 ...another thing he had never really known. Time had not been his friend in this life. He was always fighting against the clock. Against time. Trying to cherish the small things while running ahead to make sure everything would be alright in the end.

He wondered what it might feel like for his clock to stop. To stop being governed by time.

 

He huffed a delighted breath, thinking of all the things he could tell her about the good times. Of the things he achieved. All the cool things he had experienced.

...And she had always liked listening to his stories.

He shook like a leaf as he lowered himself down slowly, the cold cutting into his skin. But he just kept smiling. He wasn't going to fight this, not like his body wanted him to.

He saw her behind his eyelids, a smile on her lips, pushing him forward. Reminding him of what was waiting for him.

He put his feet back against the tub as he lay with only his face out of the chilling water, the cold cradling his prominent cheek bones. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with as much oxygen as possible. He held it for a moment, ignoring the goosebumps running along his skin and the warnings of his body against what was approaching him.

And then he let himself deflate, expelling everything from him...everything he had left.

 

He lifted his feet, and sunk down to the bottom. No bubbles of air left his lips. He felt as his body used up the last of the oxygen in his lungs, and started screaming for more. But, he didn't let himself move. He laid still as his body fought against him, clinging to anything that could continue his life.

But he didn't let it.

 

And so he drowned. But not like they did in the movies. There was no thrashing, no air bubbles, no inhaling water.

He just stopped breathing. And his heart stopped beating.

And it was _alright_.

...Because it was better this way.

 

_...'Cause I'm only human._

_._

_._

_._

 

 

 

Scott climbed up the side of Stiles' house, finding the familiar footholds.

He felt horrible.

He hadn't had the chance to explain the whole situation to Stiles. He'd thought that Stiles understood, but after the night where he came to find them Scott didn't know if he truly understood.

Scott just wanted him to know that Scott still loved him entirely. That he was still his brother. He was probably breaking so many rules by now, and Derek was going to murder him. But nobody was watching them right now.

Stiles would not be in danger by his presence.

Scott couldn't hear Stiles heartbeat right now. But he wasn't every concerned because: One, it was windy as hell out here, and Two, Stiles might be out.

If so, Scott was just going to leave a note. Let him know Scott still cared, even if he wasn't allowed to even look at him.

Scott climbed in the room, feeling a pang of nostalgia. Because everything was the same. The bat, the rumpled covers, the desk. It was all the same. And then there was the scent. The delightfully sweet scent of honey.

But he could also smell the sulphuric smell of anger and the damp smell of tears, woven into the sheets.

Scott winced, feeling guilty as hell. He hoped Stiles knew it was for the better. For his own safety, even if Derek was a paranoid asshole about it.

But he still couldn't hear Stiles heart beat, and he knew trying to track Stiles in this wind was a no-go, not that he was allowed to follow him anyway. That was stretching it too far.

He just hoped that by the time something came from them they wouldn't be able to smell Scott in his room.

Scott went over to the desk, pinching a pen from the holder and looking for some spare paper. He looked over at the wastebasket, and at all the scrunched up pieces of paper chucked haphazardly inside it. He went to pick one of them up, intending to make use of the wasted paper.

He un-did it, smoothing it out on the tabletop. The crinkles flattened, and Scott was faced with Stiles' handwriting.

_Dear Dad._

_I'm sorry that it has come to this. I know when mom left-_

It stopped. Scott frowned, not expecting some sort or letter. More like a drawing or failed plan idea like they usually were.

Why was Stiles trying to right a letter to his dad, when he could just say whatever he wanted to in person? And why a letter, it was the 21st century?

It wasn't like he was expecting to go away...?

Scott began picking up and smoothing out the failed letters, all in different states of wiring but none of them getting much farther than when he started taking about his mom.

 

Stiles hadn't left...right?

...because it looked like he was running away.

Scott jumped back from the letters now covering the desk. He turned, looking around Stiles room for something to indicate where he went or if he'd had gone.

He would have packed clothes, right? A bag?

Scott went to the closet, opening the door and searching for any substantial disappearance of clothes. There wasn't much on the hangers, and Scott felt his heart rate increase...before he stopped and rolled his eyes.

He walked over to the bed, going onto his knee and looking under it. Whoop. There they were. Shoved under the bed in true Stiles fashion.

Scott smiled for a moment, before his smile faded as his brain began to spin with ideas. So. All clothes are here. What about his phone, wallet...toiletries?

Scoot scrambled around the room for a few more moments, producing Stiles phone and wallet. He clicked the home button on Stiles phone, seeing a picture of himself and Stiles light up on the screen. His arms were around Stiles, bright smiles on their faces.

He felt his heart clench at the sight, releasing how much he truly missed Stiles. His smile...his laugh.

Sometimes he really hated being a werewolf. This was definitely up there in the top ten moments.

Okay. No hints here. Maybe toiletries?

Scott gently set Stiles phone down, place both it and the wallet on Stiles' bed. He brushed himself off, trying to push back his jarring nostalgia. He stood up and walked out of the room and into the hall.

The house was quiet, the floorboards creaking ominously underneath his feet. He shivered, feeling a sudden chill at the emptiness. He wasn't used to Stiles's house being so quiet.

He was normally here when Stiles was. And Stiles loudness usually filled up every crevice and hiding the remnants of death and loneliness that the house had, left behind after his mother died.

Scott crept forward, feeling the need to be quiet in the strange and unfamiliar environment. He slowly made his was to the door in the hall which he knew was the bathroom.

He took a deep breath, suddenly feeling cautious. He didn't know why. But then again he didn't know much about himself anymore. He still expected to fall over wheezing when he ran long distances.

He pushed open the door, and suddenly the silence made sense.

But then it wasn't silent anymore. Because Scott started screaming. He shook, unable to move. His eyes locked onto the still form of his best friend, the water glistening innocently in the afternoon light.

And then Scott's joints unlocked, and he was stumbling over to the bathtub, falling to his knees and reaching into the water. The water splashed everywhere as he thrust his arms in, his hands wrapping around Stiles and yanking him out frantically, not understand what the hell was happening.

He held the small, wet frame in his arms, waterlogged limbs weighing on him heavily.

 

Scott looked down.

The dark brown hair, the pale features. But that's where the similarities stopped. Because Stiles wasn't damaged, he didn't have scars. And Stiles didn't weigh only 120 pounds. He didn't

It wasn't Stiles. It was a dead body.

And Scott knew dead bodies when he saw them.

It wasn't Stiles. Because this body was _dead_.

It _wasn't_ him...but it was.

There was the hair, the little moles, the facial structure. And Scott knew Stiles better than the back of his own hand. Stiles' naked body was familiar to him, they'd grown up as children showering together. He knew the moles and the hair and the button nose.

This was Stiles.

...and Stiles was _dead_.

Stiles. Was. Dead.

 

Scott flinched as his own thoughts, the confusing clearing and allowing room for the pain to come slamming into him.

He was holding his best friends dead body.

Scott felt tears on his cheeks before he even knew he was crying. He wasn't sobbing outright. He wanted to so much. But his pain couldn't simply be expressed by tears. It was so much worse than that.

He'd never known pain like this before. He'd only had snippets of it when Allison died in his arms.

He hadn't even held Stiles when he died. Stiles had died, _alone_. In this bathtub. But, then...Scott tried to think. Stiles shouldn't be dead. There was no reason for him to be dead. No signs of a break in. No signs of a struggle.

But Stiles wouldn't have gone willingly, right? He wouldn't had let somebody drown him.

...unless he drowned himself.

 

Scott looked down at Stiles though the tears, the shaking of his body making Stiles' form shake too. And then it all made sense. The scars. The ribs and the gaunt cheeks. Stiles was already gone long ago. This had been his path from the moment Stiles had last seen them.

Stiles had killed himself.

 

But, if that hadn't been enough; he had done it because of them. Scott felt his heart give out, because he understood. Understood too much. Stiles had killed himself because his life had been taken from him. But Scott couldn't even find it in himself to get angry. He felt too broken, too heartsick and too grief stricken.

And so he just cried, tears running from his eyes as he curled Stiles up in his arms. He buried his face in Stiles' hair, trying to find any remnants of the honey scent on his body.

...something that hadn't changed. Something that was still the Stiles that Scott thought he knew.

But it was all gone. Hidden beneath the dampness of water and he cloying scent of death.

 

Scott flinched, feeling the shift stir within him, his feelings becoming a whirlpool of emotion which he couldn't climb out of.

He didn't even try to stop it, to control it. He let it take over, take _him_ over.

And then his head was tilted into the air, the wolf taking over as he released the most sorrowful howl. Ripping from his vocal cords, announcing the pain and grief in the only way his wolf knew how.

It was only a moment before other howls joined his, Isaac and the others realising where they had gone _terribly_ wrong.

Because this....

This was _not_ for the better. They could not have done any worse. They could not have hurt Stiles anymore than this. Because they broke him. And he drowned himself. In the pain and sadness and the _hate_ of it all.

And so they drowned with him.


	8. Werewolf Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dad? Why did mommy die?"
> 
> The Sheriff looked at Stiles, shocked. Stiles hadn't spoken since Claudia...went away. It was still too fresh in the Sheriffs mind, but Stiles was barely nine. He was doing this all on his own while his father wallowed in his grief.
> 
> The Sheriff had lost his wife. But Stiles had lost his mother.
> 
> It was up to the Sheriff now to care for Stiles. He was the only one Stiles had left. They had to take care of each other.
> 
> "Sometimes there is no reason. Sometimes they just need to go. You can't control it, can't fight it."
> 
> "Well." Stiles said, sitting up straight and looking at John with a determination he'd only seen in Claudia's eyes before. "I promise I'll never leave you."
> 
> The Sheriff smiled just a little, the words warming the ice in his heart.
> 
> (But that promise didn't stop Stiles from leaving him only seven years later)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you wanted some Sheriff feels, so here you go.
> 
> I have one of the whole pack sitting around (about 4,000 words) but I don't know if I want to put it here or use it to end Equalibrium. 
> 
> ..let me know what you guys want.

_"Daddy! daddy!" Stiles cried, tackling his legs as he walked into their home, just at the door._

_"Yes, Genim?"_

_"Look what I drew today in Pre-school!" He yelled, forgetting to use his inside voice. He held up a colourful drawing, covered in crayon lines dancing haphazardly across the page._

_"It's wonderful! Do you want me to hang it up?"_

_Stiles nodded frantically, letting him in the house. He walked inside and dropped his workbag on the ground, looking up at the sound of his name._

_To the bright smile of his wife, beckoning him to join them for dinner._

_To join his family._

. 

"Where is he?!" The sheriff cried, voice raised as he searched Stiles' room frantically. He tracked Stiles' glass board, trying to see what he had been casing up or any hint at where the hell he was.

Because the Sheriff was used to Stiles sudden disappearing. Hell, Stiles went to Mexico without his knowledge.

But he'd never disappeared for two weeks. Not without even Scott's knowledge.

Because Stiles was gone.

And he was alone.

 .

_"Daddy! Higher!" Stiles squealed, soaring through the air. The swing reached precarious heights._

_The Sheriff appeased him, putting a bit more strength into the swing. Stiles yelled with joy, clutching onto the chains that stopped him from flying away._

_But the sheriff was careful not to go too high. He couldn't let Stiles get hurt._

_Not ever._

 .

"Sir?" A voice said, bringing the Sheriff out of his spiralling memories.

"Yes?"

"...We've found a body"

The Sheriff closed his eyes, his head falling to his chest as his heart shattered.

_Please no_

 .

_"Daddy!" Stiles yelled, and the Sheriff tumbled into Stiles' room as he screamed for him. He found Stiles in his bed, tears running down his rosy checks from his nightmare._

_"It was horrible daddy! I was so scared!" He was saying, but the sheriff had enveloped him in a jarring hug. "I was lost, and I couldn't find you!" He cried, holding onto him like he was affairs his father was going to suddenly disappear._

_"I will always find you, my Genim."_

_._

The Sheriff arrived on the scene.

Parrish tried to remove him from the investigation, but he was the best equipped for this. And he wouldn't let anyone else be responsible for finding his son

He couldn't just sit at home knowing his son could be anywhere, with anyone...or anything.

Because John knew there was much worse things out there than humans.

 

"Sheriff?"

"...yeah. I'm coming." He said, swallowing as he moved down the stairs in the discreet house. It was a fake house though. The real stuff happened downstairs...in the basement. 

He took the stairs slowly, as though they could prolong the heartache.

Because he had already gone through this. He knew exactly how this was going to feel. How it was going to feel like when his chest was split in two. When the tears fell from his eyes helplessly as he laid eyes on what remained of the person he loved.

He'd done this before.

So he knew _exactly_ how much this was going to hurt.

 .

_"Dad? Why did mommy die?"_

_The Sheriff looked at Stiles, shocked. Stiles hadn't spoken since Claudia...went away. It was still too fresh in the Sheriffs mind, but Stiles was barely nine. He was doing this all on his own while his father wallowed in his grief._

_The Sheriff had lost his wife. But Stiles had lost his mother._

_It was up to the Sheriff now to care for Stiles. He was the only one Stiles had left. They had to take care of each other._

_"Sometimes there is no reason. Sometimes they just need to go. You can't control it, can't fight it."_

_"Well." Stiles said, sitting up straight and looking at John with a determination he'd only seen in Claudia's eyes before. "I promise I'll never leave you."_

_The Sheriff smiled just a little, the words warming the ice in his heart._

_(But that promise didn't stop Stiles from leaving him only seven years later)_

 . 

The Sheriff looked down at the boy on the steel draw.

He'd seen so many like this. So many bodies, covered by the white sheet that blended into their pale appearances.

 

But it had never hurt like this.

Because this wasn't just another body. A poor body that had family to cry over it. He was the family, this time. Because it was his son. His baby boy.

The last of his family.

Stiles laid on the morgues thoroughly cleaned draw. On that had continued many bodies before Stiles and would continue to do so long after he was gone.

...because he was going to have to bury his son. He was going to _bury Stiles_.

 

_Bury his little Genim._

 

Under layers and layers of dirt and decay. And, he would just become dirt himself. His coffin would lose its glossy coat. Then the cold and the insects would eat away at the wood, slowly wearing it down and down.

Then, they would set sights on his son. On the body. They would eat away at him, his suit and his skin. Strip him slowly from his bones until he was only dirt himself, absorbed into the ground.

It didn't seem real. His eyes couldn't truly understand that this was Stiles. His sixteen year old boy. With his moles and his snark and his _smile_.

...just laying here on this bench. With is eyes hidden from view, his moles and injuries hidden by the white sheet, his mouth which would never open and the smile that would never stretch across his face. Silent. Still.

 

Dead.

 

John knew what had taken him. He _knew_. Nobody else would understand, because they didn't know what lived with them in this world.

Murderers, Serial Killers...rapists. That was only the beginning.

Because Stiles had been taken by another Werewolf pack. As a little bit of fun for their psychotic alpha. They knew his connection to Derek and the rest. They knew he was under the protection of the Hale-McCall pack.

But they took him anyway...because of that. To test their limits.

But John couldn't find it in himself to be angry. Angry at Scott and at Derek for letting Stiles be apart of this. Because Stiles would have never let them keep him out once he got a whiff. Stiles had loved the pack. Loved the friends he had. The experiences they shared.

John couldn't be angry that they given Stiles a taste of his future before it was ripped from him. Because at least then he had some experience of life before his was wrenched from his injured body.

Be couldn't blame them for giving him life. Giving him something to care for and to love...make him feel wanted.

Needed.

 

Because the Sheriff couldn't provide that for Stiles. He was too broken. He wasn't against letting others heal Stiles, even when he couldn't heal himself.

Because Stiles had so much life to live.

They had taught him how to love. So, one day, he might have somebody love him like John had loved Claudia. That he might have had a chance to get back into life, even if the Sheriff had been forever barred.

Just because John couldn't love again...didn't mean Stiles couldn't.

But...now all their effort was dissipated into the wind. Because Stiles had learnt. He had loved. He'd experience so much and found people that he could count on for life...

But he died. Stiles died.

In a basement. Alone. From the wounds of _torture_.

Because they'd broken his hips so he wouldn't be able to run, fracturing his pelvis with their strength that he had shattered beneath. They cut him, electrocuted him, hit him, starved him...broke him.

And then they disappeared. The cleaned the house well, leaving no scent. But they left Stiles in the basement. With all their toys and devices, covered in his blood. Just shoved it all down there so the pack werewolves wouldn't be able to track Stiles. They left Stiles tied up, strung up on the wall.

And he died like that. With a puddle of blood beneath him, dripping from his body as life slowly sapped from him. With his thin frame and popping rib bones. With his legs that hung limp after they broke his hips.

He died, alone in a basement....with only his panic attacks for company.

And even Claudia had died with her son by her side. With somebody she loved to tell her it was going to be alright.

There had been nobody to tell him the things he deserved to hear. Didn't tell him he was loved, that they loved him so deeply and terribly. That he had done so much, fought so hard. That it was okay that he had to die. That it was alright. That "We've got you, Stiles. We always have and be always will."

Because he died on his own.

...With only his tears and his frantic heart. With his _drip drip_ dripping blood and the deep and terrible pain.

He died alone.

But...at least now he could be buried next to his mom.

And then he won't be so alone anymore.

 .

_"Dad?" Stiles asked, one day in the Fall. The sheriff looked up at him from the grave they were visiting. Standing above the ground where his wife lay, decomposing._

_"Do you think we will ever see her again?" He asked, voice thick from the tears he refused to cry._

_...God, he grown up so fast. Too fast. He was only fourteen. But he acted far beyond the mental capacity he should be able to achieve._

_But trauma changed people._

_"I don't know, Stiles." John admitted. "We might, but nobody will know. I hope so. When I go, I hope I will see her."_

_"I will join you."_

_"Not for many years after, Stiles. You will surpass me in both years and intellect. You will have your own family. Your own person to love, alright? You will. I'll make sure of it."_

_"Like you can stop me." Stiles said, a bitter undertone in his voice._

_"Oh, my boy, don't doubt my ability to slap some sense into you from the afterlife." Stiles smiled sadly. He knew his dad was trying to lift his spirits. But neither male really had it in them today._

_"You will always find a way, dad. I'm sure of it." Stiles said, picking at the grass between his finger from where he sat at Johns feet. Just as he did when he was little._

_"I will always find a way. Just as I will find you when you come to greet us."_

_"Yeah." Stiles said, eyes looking into the distance as tears glistened in his eyes. "Then we can be a family again."_

_"We will always be family, Stiles. Even when we are separated by life and death." John said, brushing his hands through Stiles hair._

_"Always." Stiles smiled, and it was the first genuine one for a long time. Even if it was riddled with pain._

_It was real enough for them both._

 .

John didn't really notice when the service ended.

He was just staring into the pretty sunset...feeling betrayed. Because it shouldn't be so beautiful today. The sun shouldn't be shining and the birds shouldn't be singing. The grass shouldn't look so green and the flowers shouldn't look so vibrant.

Because this was the day he was burying his son.

But, before he knew it. He was alone. He vaguely remembered Scott hugging him gently, whispering to met him later. Or Melissa telling him to come over and eat some dinner tonight. Or the pack each scent marking him with hugs or comforting touches.

He just remembered nodding and letting them walk away, their black clothing making them eyesores in the beautiful warm day.

He couldn't really focus. Not when everything was so bright.

Unlike the darkness swirling in his soul.

The sheriff looked down at the grave in front of him. Shiny and polished. Joining in the light and happy environment that haunted him.

 

 _Genim 'Stiles' Stilinski_  
Aged 16  
"His true wealth was in his generous heart  
And what an endless wealth did he have."

 

He hadn't been a model father. He hadn't always been there to protect his son. But he'd done his best.

It comforted him to know that Stiles never held it against him. That he had died knowing that his father truly loved him with everything he had left. But he was a broken man. He couldn't give Stiles all the love he deserved.

But, at least now...his mother could.

So then Stiles would be able to remember what it was like to not be broken anymore. What it was like to not suffer panic attacks or to be tortured.

Then his mother could tell him all the things he'd never had a chance to.

Let him know that he had lived the best he could have, that he had loved so extraordinarily...And that it was okay to die. That it was okay to have to go. That his promise to never leave wasn't held against him. To tell Stiles that he would find him.

That he would _always_ find him.

Because they would never be separated. Not even by life or death. Because nothing could separate this family. Nothing would ever take Stiles away from him or from Claudia.

Because love transcended all.

Even death.

 

.  
.

 

When a woman's husband died, they called her a widow. When a man's wife died, they called him a widower. But....there was no word for a parent that lost their child.

Because there wasn't a word that could describe the pain - the _agony_ \- that was left behind.


	9. Kanima

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please, Derek." Stiles pleaded. His voice was shaking pathetically, but Derek knew that his wish came from the bottom of his heart.
> 
> Just like Paige.
> 
> Derek finally heaved a dry, shuddering sob, feeling like he was sixteen again. Vulnerable and scared, loosing everything he never thought he might have to loose.
> 
> Because he'd thought about his pack dying. Thought about them burning like his family. But, in all these haunting nightmares....he never imagined Stiles would be with them. He imagined Stiles to make it somehow. Make it out with his father to live the life that had been taken from him when he was introduced to the supernatural....He never thought he would lose Stiles.
> 
> But Stiles was never his to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a pack feels ones coming soon. Not the one I was talking about but a different one :)
> 
> Enjoy

Derek's legs burned. Throbbed, actually.

But he paid it no mind.

He would heal. He always _f*cking healed_. Healed even when the pain was still there. Healed so there was nothing to show for it. Made him feel weak and stupid. Because he shouldn't feel pain over something that wasn't there. But he always healed.

And it was both a blessing and a curse.

Because he healed. He got better. His wounds knitted back together and his organs did their self repair. He healed like the luxury it was seen to be. But, because of it...

He also forgot how fragile life could be.

How easily it was to harm...and to take. To maim and to torment. How easily pain and injury could be used to force somebody to do something.

...to torture.

He felt blood run down the front of his shirt, making his ripped grey Henley stick to his skin as he ran. Because he was running. Running away. Against time...against the seconds and the minutes it took to get to his destination. The ticks of the clock.

 

And he couldn't help but wonder what he was all doing it for. Why was the solitary and sociopathic alpha werewolf running?

But then he would feel more blood run down his chest, and he would remember why.

His breathing was laboured from running miles in human form. But, the breathing in his ear was even worse. Because it wasn't just laboured, it was airy...light.

And it could only remind him of the time he was fighting against. Of how close he was becoming to it all being for naught.

Because he was running out of time.

 

"It's okay."

The voice whispered in his ear, airy and snatched away by the wind despite the minimal distance between them.

He only shook his head, his chest tightening as he kept running. His hands involuntarily held the body in his arms tighter, one arm around their back and the other holding their thigh.

 

...Because Stiles had never felt lighter.

 

He was falling apart in Derek's arms. He was cracking and breaking into pieces, dissipating into the wind that lashed against them.

But he wouldn't let it. Not again. The wind would not take Stiles like it took the ashes of his family.

He would not lose again.

 

Because he couldn't watch another innocent die. He'd already seen too much. And especially not this particular innocent. Because this was Stiles. The annoying brat with a running mouth. With his bright eyes and his incredible sass that continued to baffle Derek.

Because Stiles was completely innocent. In every shape and form. He wasn't even a supernatural creature. He was still completely, utterly and _breakably_ human.

He was human. _Human_.

There was a reason why he didn't let Stiles near him. Let the fragile one get too close to the one that broke everything. He was afraid he was going to break Stiles.

But the Kanima had got there first.

 

Because Scott and Stiles was a package deal. He needed Scott, and so Stiles came along too. He'd hoped his abrasiveness would drive him away, but it only intrigued the boy.

And he'd let him in. Let him run rampant in his life in the way he never should.

Because if it was something he knew about humans...it was their remarkable ability to break. Because the had been humans in his pack too. They had bruised with the slightest touch, scarred so _easily_.

But they also burned just as fast as any other.

And Derek had shoved away all the memories, forgetting some and trying desperately not the cling to others. So he'd forgotten how easily they broke.

But now he knew...God, he knew.

And he also remembered that they didn't heal. They didn't _heal_. They couldn't get better in the blink of an eye. Couldn't heal themselves in the way he took for granted. The way he'd begun to think was normal.

So he'd let Stiles fight with them, his incredible wit more useful than any weapon. They all taken blows, cuts and bruises and broken bones.

But they all frick'n _healed_.

And then the monster they had fought gave a similar blow to Stiles. Their talon stabbing a inch deep into Stiles chest....through his lung.

And Stiles had crumpled. Just dropped to the floor, a blank look in his eyes as his body registered the fatal wound.

It was then that Derek remembered. Remembered that Stiles couldn't heal.

He'd just stood there, looking as Stiles heaved on the ground, shaking and crying. He'd vaguely heard the other ripping into the monster with renewed fury. Because they knew too.

They knew Stiles didn't heal.

But Derek had taken him anyway. Lifted him off the ground and Stiles had clung to him, legs around his waist and arms around his shoulders.

And then he took off, racing the miles across town to the hospital.

But he was still a mile out, and Stiles breaths were no longer heavy. They were just becoming empty, like he wasn't taking in enough oxygen.

Derek knew they had enough oxygen around them. It was just that his left lung decided it wanted to be filled with blood. Stiles couldn't heal it. His lung was deflated and he was trying to breathe through his own blood.

And he was also bleeding out all over Derek. Down his chest and staining him with the scent of Stiles and of iron.

"It's _okay._ " Stiles forced, still smiling against his neck. Derek hissed, shaking his head more forcibly as he navigated the harsh terrain.

 

"You don't have to fight it."

Derek jerked, tripping over a root. He clutched onto Stiles as they went down, using his body as a shield as they rolled down the small slope. Leaves and dead plant matter was thrown into the air as they rolled.

They finally reached a stop, Stiles laying beneath him as he braced his forearms next to the boys head. He hissed, hating himself for wasting these few precious seconds. He moved to stand, heaving himself off Stiles.

But a weak and pale hand shot out in the darkness of night, latching onto his blood soaked Henley.

He stopped in his tracks, not because Stiles weak attempt could actually force him to stop, but because he needed to be gentle. He couldn't manhandle Stiles when he was like this.

He couldn't afford to.

Stiles stared up at him, eyes shining in the crescent moon above them. He stared with intent, surrendering the words he knew Derek would refuse to hear.

Derek shook his head, not being able to comprehend his words. He saw them and understood them...but he could never accept them.

He put a large hand over Stiles shaking one, gently pulling him away from gripping his shirt. But Stiles only tugged harder, his resolve empowering his weak body.

Derek bit his lip, letting go of Stiles' hand.

He tried to pull Stiles up with him, getting up without forcing Stiles to let go of him. But Stiles was adamant.

"Stiles." He ground out, his voice fighting the wind that swirled around them and the trees that surrounded them. "We have to go."

"No." Stiles said. "You don't have to go anywhere. Only I do"

It sounded innocent enough, but Derek heard the underlying words. Stiles wasn't just going to get himself to the hospital. To go just anywhere.

He meant that he was the only one that was going to be leaving this spot. Leaving the world.

...and he wasn't going to let Derek save him.

 

"Damn it, Stiles." He hissed, putting his face in Stiles' neck so he wouldn't have to see the knowing eyes.

"Yeah? It's okay, Derek. Everything is going to be okay."

"No it's not, Stiles!" Derek hissed in his ear. "You don't get to say that. Not now, not ever."

"So when will I get to say it? I can say whatever the hell I want to now." Stiles said, and Derek could hear the nostalgic smile in his voice. "...Nobody can hurt me more than this."

And Derek's heart just broke a little.

 

"Look at me, Derek." Stiles said after a moment, voice even lighter than before. He sat up, looking down at Stiles, unable to refuse his request. Stiles smiled, blood on his lips.

"It _will_ be okay. You will make it okay." Stiles said with full conviction.

Derek could only sigh in resignation, nodding his consent to Stiles words. Who could argue with a dying child?

"At least let me take some of your pain?" He asked, voice hopeful. He knew Stiles hated it when they took his pain. But he had to feel like he was doing something.

Stiles nodded, eyes sad. Derek looked away from them, instead looking down where he peeled Stiles' shirt from his bloodied skin. He lifted it and placed a hand on the warm skin of Stiles' belly.

He began sapping the pain away, the shirt over his arm hiding the black marks that he knew were disappearing into his skin.

Stiles' eyes flickered shut, relief evident on his bloody face. Derek bit his lip until he tasted blood, fighting against his instincts to try and save this boy.

Because he couldn't save somebody that didn't want to be saved.

 

"...Do it." Stiles said, forced and quick as he fought for breath, eyes wide as he came to a conclusion. Derek felt the muscles and tendons beneath Stiles' skin tense with the effort underneath his hand.

Derek looked up at him, confusing in his eyes surfacing through the sea of heartache.

"Do it, Derek."

"W-what?" Derek winced, hating himself for his voice sounding so weak. So weak and stupid when even Stiles' was stronger. And Stiles was the one dying.

Stiles smiled, emotions swirling in his eyes. The moonlight reflected of his irises, lighting the brown into a light amber in the night. His eyes burned with such determination that Derek his eyes looked almost golden.

Like a wolf.

Oh god. He could just bite him. _Heal_ him. It would be so easy, just-

"No, Derek." Stiles said, and Derek immediately felt guilty. Stiles didn't want that. He never wanted that.

Derek would not take away his freedom....it was the only thing he had left.

"I want you to do it."

"Do what?!" Derek cried, his grief and confusion making him lash out. But Stiles didn't flinch, and it somehow made him feel worse. Because that meant Stiles was acclimatised to his lashing out, his violence.

Stiles had become used to violence.

And that fact sunk like a rock into Derek's soul.

"Teeth." Stiles said, blood colouring his lips bright red. "Do it like you always promised." Derek sat still, running over every promise and every thing he could have said to Stiles.

_"I will rip your throat out with my teeth, Stiles"_

The realisation stuck him across the face, leaving stinging pain in its wake. He felt like ice water was running down his back with the stinging realisation of what Stiles was asking of him.

Derek had never felt more cold.

 " _Please_ , Derek." Stiles pleaded. His voice was shaking pathetically, but Derek _knew_ that his wish came from the bottom of his heart.

Just like Paige.

Derek finally heaved a dry, shuddering sob, feeling like he was sixteen again. Vulnerable and scared, loosing everything he never thought he might have to loose.

Because he'd thought about his pack dying. Thought about them burning like his family. But, in all these haunting nightmares....he never imagined Stiles would be with them. He imagined Stiles to make it somehow. Make it out with his father to live the life that had been taken from him when he was introduced to the supernatural....He never thought he would lose Stiles.

But Stiles was never his to keep.

 

"I..." He tired, but he realised he had nothing he could say. How did you agree to take somebody's life? How did you look them in the eye and say you would willingly _rip out their throat?_

"It's okay." Stiles said, those hateful words that Derek couldn't judge him for saying. "No words, just action. Like the g-good old days?"

The good old days. Where Derek wasn't hurting anyone. Where he was just the mysterious shadow. With emptiness in his heart. He never thought he'd want to be that man again.

But he would do anything if it meant Stiles didn't have to die tonight.

 ...And if it meant he wouldn't have to be the cause.

 

"It will be" Sties gasped for breath, and Derek could feel how much it pained him "...be quick, I promise."

Promises. Derek had promised that he would rip Stiles throat out. He'd used intimidation to restore his power when he felt vulnerable. Used words in the only way he really knew how. To shield, to protect, to threaten.

It had been a empty promise. And yet he was here fulfilling it.

Derek knew Stiles' promise with empty too. Knew it was simply for comfort and to ease the pain starting to fester in Derek's soul. It was utter bullshit...

 

But Stiles had always known what to say.

 

Derek couldn't force himself to move. To close the distance between his mouth and Stiles' pulsing throat. He just stayed, rock still as wind continued to tease their clothes and cool the blood on both their bodies.

Stiles shivered, or spasmed. The pain an the cold where both mixing into one. His frayed nerves and filling lung making everything so dulled or so real. Nothing was as he knew it to be.

Expect Derek.

His alpha. He would look after him, just like he always promised.

Even if all it had been was empty promises whispered on the wind.

Because they were both liars. Both _f*cking liars_. Lying was second nature to Stiles. Lying and lying, all the time. Everyday, every hour. To everyone. Derek lied too. Lied to them all. To use them in the beginning, and to protect them in the end.

They were both hypocritical bastards.

So neither said anything about how empty their promises were. How stupid and wasteful their breath was even to muster those few words.

And Stiles hadn't many left. He didn't want to waste them picking Derek out when he could be saying all the things he never thought he would have to say.

 

"Derek." He said, calm as possible with blood slowly tricking from his mouth and filling up his lungs. "You have to tell my d....dad. Tell him I love him. And that I'm sorry."

"I'm so sorry"

Stiles heaved tears along with his blood, thinking about his dad and the legacy he was leaving for his father. The legacy of a dead wife and a dead son. Both taken far before their time...The man that had lost his entire family.

"I understand." Derek said. Because if anyone knew...he did. He knew the pain that destroy the Sheriff. But he would do anything for Stiles. He would protect his father and be there in his grief. He would do it for Stiles... even if it was in his memory.

"I promise." He said, and Stiles tied to nod. But couldn't, as he was too weak to move his head at all. Derek smiled, but only to stop himself from biting his lip at seeing how far stiles had fallen.

Stiles smiled too, and Derek new it was a pretence too. Stiles hid pain well, but not when Derek's hand was on his skin, feeling the waves of his pain rise and fall with the weak pulse of his heart.

 

They were hiding behind masks. Behind lies and fake smiles. But it was okay, It was fine. It was okay for them to both hide away. Hide from the abyss that faced Stiles, and the actions Derek must have to take.

They were both liars anyway.

...But sometimes a little lie was all Stiles needed to let go.

 

Derek felt a hot tear fall down his cheek, chilled instantly by the wind. He breathed in deeply, taking a luxury Stiles no longer had privy to, to calm himself down. He could lie. He always lied.

"It's gonna be okay, Stiles." He said, the lies poison in his mouth. Stiles quirked a lip, a shadow of his former expression. But he didn't object, letting Derek continue.

Derek looked at Stiles, lifting his free hand to wipe some of the blood off his face. Stiles hummed in appreciation, cutting off quickly like the effort to make the sound pained him.

It probably did.

But Stiles nodded, voicing no words to break the spell between them. Derek nodded back, his whole body trembling. But then he kept talking, spitting poison until it sounded like reassurance.

"It will be okay, Stiles. My mother and father will be awaiting for you. She will have a big smile on her face, my father the same. My family will all greet you at the gates, hair shining and skin clean as they run towards you. Run towards a new member of their pack."

Derek slowly lent down, Stiles eyes flittering closed.

"You will get buried in a famous Hale puppy pile. They will surround you with their scent of pack, making you theirs. Marking you as family. You will smell like them...like home." Stiles sniffed, a light inhale of breath.

Derek wondered if Stiles could smell it already.

 

"They will talk loudly, all at the same time in their hurry to tell you everything at once. Laura...Laura will probably immediately fill your head with stories of my awkward teenage years. And you will laugh with her, with them."

Stiles smiled.

"And then you will walk further into the feeling of home. Smelling it and feeling it all around you. You will smell a new smell. You will smile the biggest grin of your life. Because it was the smell of your mother cooking."

Derek's mouth was against Stiles throat, and Derek could feel the wetness of their tears mixing against his cheek.

"And you will run. The pack with run with you. You'll storm in, disbelieving but feeling so light. Everything horrible you have had to endure, everyone you have lost and all the scars you have...will fade. Because you will see her. Standing over the stove, turning towards you like she is surprised."

 Derek let his fangs out from beneath his gums, brushing against Stiles' throat.

"She will open your arms. Open those arms that you have missed so much. You will run into her arms, hugging her with fierce love and longing and she will laugh at your eagerness. Telling you that you've grown so tall, so handsome. And she will tell you that you don't have to hug her so tight..."

"Because you will have all the time in the world."

 

Derek bit down, tearing into the flesh so easily. He pulled himself back, almost vomiting. Stiles looked up at him. At his blood that was running down Derek's chin. With calm acceptance and belief in his eyes, as though Derek's words had truly made him believe. Or maybe it was just because he couldn't think about anything else.

He choked, heaving with his pain but Derek still absorbed it.

Stiles writhed, new and warm blood covering them both. Derek's only watched, waiting for it all to end. Words still tumbled from his lips, useless but hoping that they were bringing Stiles peace.

"It will be wonderful. And you will be more than okay. You will be loved, adored. You will have all the love you have wanted so much, craved. You will have it all. You will always be better than okay."

And then Stiles stopped. Body suddenly halting from his seizure.

A small keening sound came from his shredded throat, loud in the wind that carried it away. And then he was limp, the light gone from his eyes and turning them a dark and murky brown.

 

And Derek had killed Stiles.

...But he couldn't feel anything but empty. Like everything he could possibly feel had been taken from him. He didn't howl. Didn't sob....He just sat there.

Because if he stayed still enough. If he went still like Stiles...

Maybe he could be dead too. Because he wanted so, so bad for his lies to be true. For his mother and his father and all of his loved ones waiting for him.

 

He wanted to be dead too.

 

.....

 

It is only later that Derek mustered up the courage to take Stiles body back to his father.

It would be his worst nightmare. His son carried to his doorstep, dead and cold. Blood staining ever crediting and showing all the things the Sheriff would never want to understand, but did. Telling him that Stiles died painfully. That the blood that stained everything told of how long he _suffered_.

But Derek couldn't even feel better by cutting his suffering short. He couldn't feel anything anymore.

He found himself too quickly on the Stilinski porch. His burden too heavy and the weight of his decision even heavier. He quickly shut down the thought of just leaving Stiles on the doorstep, like a coward.

But he deserved anything the Sheriff would do to him. Bullets...anything at all.

Only he wished that he wouldn't heal from it.

 

He was at the door now, hearing the Sheriff sleeping inside. Collapsed from worry on the couch. He wouldn't have to worry any more. Derek was bringing his son home.

And then Stiles would be safe in his grave. And nobody would have to worry about him anymore.

...They would always know where he was.

He shifted Stiles' dead body in his arms, the early morning only just light enough for the Sheriff's eyes. He knocked after a small hesitation, preparing for the wave of hatred and guilt.

He heard The Sheriff wake, stumbling to the door. And Derek just stood, completely vulnerable to what was approaching him.

He braced as the door clicked.

But nothing could compare to the dry sob that escaped the Sheriffs mouth, his angst so quick to destroy that even his body couldn't muster the tears to go along with his cry.

Derek looked at him squarely. But the Sheriff only had eyes for his son.

Derek carried him bridal style, so he draped over Derek's arms weakly, limply, like the dead body he was. Derek saw as the Sheriff understood, his experience making him so knowledgable on the thing he really didn't want to know.

The sheriff collapsed against the door, eyes trained on his son even when he was blinded by tears.

"Oh my God!" He screamed, his voice finding him even as he sobbed. "Oh my god....God. No. No..... _NO!!"_

Derek only stood still. Carrying Stiles' body in his arms, the boys heavy head against his heart.

And he wanted nothing more than to cry with him...but, now even that simple luxury had been taken from him. But he wasn't feeling any pity for himself. Not the slightest. Because he always had more luxuries than anyone else.

It was his turn to feel what it was like without them. It was a shame he couldn't turn off his healing luxury. Because he deserved to feel the pain of death just like Stiles did.

Because Stiles didn't have any luxuries. He was dead.

 

And it wasn't the first time that Derek wanted to be him instead.

 

......

 

They tell him it's was merciful. The best thing he could have done.

But that didn't stop him from feeling like a murderer.

Because he was.

His eyes shined bright blue in the dark. Telling of the innocent lives he had taken. The physical branding to go along with the brand on his heart.

Because he killed them.

And he was a murderer. Nothing more.

He could never be anything more. He thought, that maybe, after Paige he could become a better man. That after the fires he could somehow repair himself.

But he was a _murderer_.

And that was all he was ever going to be.


	10. Hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call.
> 
> It was always a phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little snippet that came out of nowhere. Long pack feels chappie coming up soon!
> 
> Enjoy!

A phone call.

It was always a phone call.

The ringing that was so familiar and monotone. So homely. Usually followed by the shouts of "I'll get it!". It was so familiar and mundane. So normal in this life.

But the ringing never let you know what you would be told in the next minute. Never alluded to what it may contain. It was generic and plain. Just the same old _ring ring_.

It could simply be his son calling him to tell him he was at the shops, asking what he wanted. It could be his son calling him to tell him he was having a sleepover with the pack.

But there was one time that he had picked up the phone...and that ring ring couldn't have ever been enough warning as to what laid ahead. To the absolute terror and soul crushing grief. Picking up the phone believing she was alive, only to find she was dead. Feeling like his world was shattering, the _ring ring_ echoing in his head, swamped by the surging and destroying memories of her. Memories he'd never have again...never make or experience.

Gone. Taken. Lost. Broken.

....He'd never thought he'd get that phone call again.

Because that wouldn't be right, could it? It wouldn't be fair, wouldn't be just. Because that phone call had shattered his world, torn him down so far and so deep...but left him living. Living and breathing, in the way his wife no longer could.

Because he was left to live with the heartache. Live with the pain and the memories and the ring ring when he should have been listening to her dying breaths instead. Because it had hurt enough. It had been a once in a lifetime thing. Something that was so destroying that it only came once. Could only come once.

Because pain like that was not meant to be felt.

So when it came, sweeping in like a tsunami, he was only supposed to feel the after-tremors. Phantom pains left in its wake.

There wasn't supposed to be another one.

Not when he hadn't recovered from the last. Not when he never would have.

Because now....now he just wanted to die.

Die so the _ring ring_ would stop echoing in his head, the haunting sound installing grief and agony into its chimes. Somehow turning something so simple, so domestic, into a symphony of heartache. Because he got to hear the chimes. That was all he got.

Stupid _ring ring_.

No other warning. No premonition. So damn inadequate to what was to come. Because he didn't even get to hear the dying breaths. The whispered words. Soft promises and apologies.

Because even that would be better then the fucking _ring ring_.

IT would hurt, yes, but then it would mean he was there. Not just at home, completely unaware before the simple phone call that ruined it all. It would have meant that he had been there to watch them go. To be a husband...to be a _father_.

Because now he was neither.

He didn't have anyone. All because of that one phone call that tore him apart. Because now there was no airy laughter because of its interruption, his wife snuggling him as he answered it. There was no yelling of "I'll get it!" And clambering footsteps running down the stairs.

 It was gone. Faded away. 

The house was so cold and empty, devoid of life but filled with ghosts.

He was all alone. Sitting in the silence and the darkness. He was empty inside too. So empty and cold. He had been torn apart and then destroyed. Completely obliterated. He had nothing but his temporarily numbing whiskey, hoping that he could stay numb forever and not have to wake up in the morning, aware but completely incapable of doing anything.

He couldn't do anything, not anymore. He couldn't help anyone.

Because what good was a cop that couldn't even save his family? Save his wife....his _son?_ What good was a man that not only let his family slip away....but wasn't even there to watch them go?What was the man that hadn't even been thinking of his wife or his son as they breathed their last breaths?

Had his mind elsewhere the moments they faded away....Working as his wife breathed her last, watching television as the light faded from his sons eyes?

What kind of man was he?

Well, that was one thing he could answer. The only thing he was completely _certain_ about anymore.

He was a fool. A incapable _fool_.

Because he wasn't anything anymore. Had nothing to his name. No wife or son. Just sitting within these walls, not able to go upstairs to the picture on his beside table. Or the unmade bed and unfinished homework, pen still between the text book.

Unfinished. Incomplete.

Because his whole life had been incomplete.

And now John was never going to see him graduate. Or to go to college. To get married, or not. He might have been gay. Like he had once joked.

But now John would never know. 

So he just set the phone down quietly, cutting off Scott's whimpering apologies as he tried not to dissolve into his own grief. He didn't want to hear anyone else grieve. Plus...he'd already gathered enough from the broken sentences.

He didn't need to be told twice. He didn't need to hear it more than once.

Didn't needed to be told that it was accident. That the hunters hadn't meant to shoot the human that _couldn't fucking heal_. Because it didn't change the fact that his son was dead.

Stiles. His baby boy. His only son. His only family.

His little Genim.

The boy with a name nobody could pronounce. With a heart so large, and a brain that was always running in overdrive. The boy that cared so much and was repeatedly underestimated.

The boy that once you earned his love, you kept it forever.

He'd been shot. Through the _stomach_.

And he'd bled out slowly, covering the ground and seeping into the earth. Clutching his stomach as blood ran between his fingers, keening cries of pain escaping his gritted teeth.

While the Sheriff sat on his couch, watching the football as he ate the dinner Stiles made for him before he went out. He'd sat, warm and comfortable on the couch, as his son bled out on the forrest floor.

His little boy had been _murdered_. Ripped from life before he even began it.

So then he slammed things. Hit things. Broke things and sat amongst them, just so they could just be as broken as him. And then he would go to his liquor cabinet, punching through the glass because he couldn't bare to go up and get the key from his sons room, hanging from his bedpost. Punch though it because physical pain was better than this emotional hell.

Because it would only remind him of how much better Stiles had cared for him...when he hadn't even been there to hold him as he died.

Because Stiles had been a good son. He'd tried so hard. Kept good grades and held himself and their smaller family together when his mom died. Kept John healthy when he had been torn apart. Putting John above himself.

Because he'd been so scared to loose him to.

The Sheriff laughed brokenly, snatching the full whiskey from the cabinet. He'd been terrified of losing John. Of losing his dad. But John had never thought about losing him. He didn't have the sporadic nightmares that accompanied Stiles' ADHD brain. Didn't think irrationally.

Because it had been completely irrational to think that there was the possibility that he might lose Stiles.

Stiles had dreamt up scenarios. Staying up late at night and shivering with the possibilities, eyes wide open with unexplainable fear that came from feeling it all before. And being scared of feeling it again...He'd thought it all though.

But the Sheriff hadn't. He didn't even think about it.

Because there was no way, no damn way, that the world would take him too.

But it did.

And so, he sat alone. His whiskey in his hand as blood ran down his bloodied knuckles, staring into the wall and wondering if he was even complete anymore.

Because he felt like he was barely a shell now, cracks slowly running up his sides...waiting to be shattered. His soul had fled him the moment Scott uttered those whimpered words.

_"Oh....God... S-stiles....Stiles, he....he's gone!....I'm...I don't....I'm so sorry. I never thought....he's dead! Oh god...no... I'm sorr-."_

So he sat in the dark. Sat alone and broken, surrounded by broken things. Sat until he moulded with them. Broken and destroyed. Beyond repair. Beyond life.

With only the phone call ringing, unanswered as it chimed on and on.

Because there was nobody that could answer it anymore.


	11. Heart Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles didn't think about the things he was leaving behind. The life he could have had. He couldn't. Physically yes...but maybe even then. He had the ability to think about everything.
> 
> But he couldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celebratory story for getting over 100 kudos for this story. I wasnt going to post this, but I felt the urge too. Over 7,000+ chappie coming soon! All rights of the italiced-poem go to author. I accidentally invented the other one. 
> 
> Intense Pack Feels + Stilinski Feels
> 
> Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

_Do not stand at my grave and weep._   
_I am not there. I do not sleep._

Stiles didn't think about the things he was leaving behind. The life he could have had. He couldn't. Physically yes...but maybe even then. He had the ability to think about everything.

But he couldn't.

Not the empty bedroom at the end of the hall.

Not the empty seat at their already small dining table.

Not the chipped paint off his living room wall.

And all just because he was able.

Not the empty space he was leaving in the fall...

Because it wouldn't be fair. Just like his death.

It wouldn't be fair at all.

 

_I am a thousand winds that blow.  
I am the diamond glints on snow._

 

Winter had been harsh that year.

New York was treating him fine, but the weather was not.

It was jarring in all honesty. He wasn't adapted to the freezing cold like everyone else in this state. He could feel it in his bones, no matter where he was. He could be sitting in a boiling hot bath, but the chill never truly left him.

It felt forever isolated. Cold and lonely. He had only the white snow and his ghosts for company.

And he had an abundance of both.

He missed California. He missed Beacon Hills....But it had too many memories to haunt him. He couldn't stay in a place where all he had left were memories. Memories of all the people he lost.

And there were a lot.

But Stiles was the last straw.

Derek had gone through his whole existence trying to fix his mistakes. Trying to make everything right. Trying to keep everyone alive.

But he was confident in the fact that the universe hated him. And he kept trying. Kept fighting. But sometimes death came in a form that nobody could fight.

And it only served to remind him of how useless he was.

Because he couldn't save Stiles. Couldn't save any of them. He was better off alone. Everyone was better off without him around.

Besides, nobody wanted to be around the guy that had smelt of death.

In Stiles' exact words.

Because Death followed him. But it didn't hurt him, not directly. It just hurt everyone around him...killed everyone around him.

Because death was his shadow.

And it was never going to leave him alone. Not until he surrendered to it.

And as the days past him by, it was starting to look like a better idea than this awful life.

 

_I am the sunlight on ripened grain.  
I am the gentle autumn rain._

 

Lydia did not smile.

Lydia always smiled. Always showed off her dazzling teeth and perfect red lips. Always smiled, even when she had no reason to. Smiled because she was expected to. Because what did Lydia Martin have to be sad about?

Nothing.

Or so everyone thought.

Lydia did not want to smile. She had no reason to smile.

Her parents had noticed a change in her. But they didn't approach her like normal parents. They just bought her more gifts. Bought her more designer clothes and makeup. Bought her more lipstick.

So she would smile more. So her lips would be luscious and model worthy.

 

She hadn't really minded when they had bought her love before...but now it was just sickening.

And she didn't use any of the clothes or makeup. She just held back tears as she shoved them into the back of her closet. Because she would not smile. She would not smile like they wanted her to. Not now, not anymore.

She just shoved them to the back of her closet, still in their designer shopping bags. So she wouldn't have to look at them and remind herself why she was doing this in the first place.

But she sat there now, sitting on the edge of her bed and staring into her closet. Only the afternoon sun to lighten her surroundings.

Lydia knew this was ridiculous. She knew she should be making the most of this circumstance, like she always had. She knew she should be relishing in the shower of gifts that were a compromise for love.

But she couldn't. She couldn't be Lydia Martin. She couldn't. Because it even the thought made her feel sick.

Because it would be like she was enjoying the benefits of Stiles' awful fate. That she was laughing with her spoils of war over his cold corpse.

She grimaced because she had forgotten how to smile.

 

She looked outside, seeing the first rain of the autumn. She thought it strange, seeing as the sun was still out. Still shining outside her window like there wasn't rain on her window pane.

Monkey Rain, it was called. She didn't know why it was called that.

But Stiles had called it that.

And she had laughed at the ridiculousness of it when he'd told her. Because what name was that anyway? Monkey rain? And he'd explained with a smile on his face, watching the rain fall. Because apparently monkeys only got married when the sun was out and it was raining at the same time.

But she hadn't doubted him, because who knows where he found that on the Internet? But she didn't doubt him. Because Stiles was usually right.

Usually.

But not always. Because he believed that she was beautiful when she cried. Nobody thought she was beautiful when she cried. She was only beautiful when she smiled.

It was stupid to think she was beautiful when she was crying. What was so pretty about smudged mascara and tears anyway?

She didn't know. And she never would.

 

_When you awaken in the morning’s hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush_

John sat in the dark.

He'd been doing it a lot recently. Just sitting in his favourite armchair, and looking out at the world that hated him so.

He didn't know what time it was, didn't really care. Because why should he abide by the earth's laws if it didn't abide by his?

It looked like more, though. He knew because he'd done this before. Watched the sun set and rise, not moving from his place on this chair. He knew he should go to bed, get some rest.

But he didn't see the point of going to bed, if he was never going to sleep.

Because he wasn't. He wasn't going to sleep. He'd wanted to, sure. And he'd tried. He'd fallen asleep yesterday, in this armchair.

If you count nightmares as sleep.

 

And so he didn't sleep. He just stayed awake, watching the earth rotate. Sure, he'd wipe out for an hour or so, but he'd be here again when the nightmares finally woke him.

And he wanted to sleep. Wanted it more than anything. Because in his sleep he wouldn't remember any of this. He wouldn't remember what had become of his life. He would be floating in his sleep, with no nightmares or memories to haunt him.

But he didn't sleep. He didn't dream. He only had nightmares.

And so sleeping wasn't really an option.

But he was human. He couldn't deny his rest. But his rest only lasted as long as it took for his nightmares to wake him up screaming.

And his screams would echo in this empty house. This empty house that had once contained a family. His family.

His family.

The reason why he was screaming.

His beautiful wife, with her glowing hazel eyes that he had fallen in love with. With her long hair the colour of spun wheat. With her smile that had warmed his heart, the smile had had twisted into something sickly with her death.

His son. The beautiful boy that had inherited those beautiful eyes. Those beautiful eyes.

 

Those eyes that haunted him from the photo frames that lined his hallway. Those beautiful eyes that watched him, frozen in a time when she was alive and happy. A time when he was alive and happy. Like mother, like son. But their similarities hurt John more than it should be fair.

But those eyes...those eyes always looked so knowing in death. Because he'd seen both of them when they were close to death. He knew that they knew and saw too much. And that they'd lived so little.

But that wasn't a fair analogy. They had lived, they had loved.

But they had died.

And that just ruined everything. Because it didn't matter what they had done, what good they made cause and what lives they had changed.

Because they were dead. And dead people didn't know what they had done. They couldn't remember what they had done in life. They never knew what grief they had caused.

He knew because if they had, they would be back. They would have come back for him, to apologise and to grant him one last wish.

Because this grief was killing him.

And his beloved wife and son wouldn't be so harsh to leave him alone to sob over their deaths. Not if they were the people he knew.

But that was the problem. It was that they weren't. They weren't the people he remembered. They weren't the people he had loved.

Because they were dead.

And dead people knew no more.

 

_Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night._

 

Scott stared up at the stars.

 

He'd never really paid much attention to the solar system before Stiles had forcefully introduced him to it. He could remember when Stiles had laid in the cool grass of his own backyard, urging Scott to join him. A large mischievous smile spreading across his face

"Scott! Scott! Come look at this man. Isn't it pretty?"

And it was pretty. It really was. It had opened Scott's eyes to the world. He saw how isolated it was, how peaceful it was up there. Time did not change it, time did not define it. There was so much out there that he would never see. He would never see the stars or the sun. He would never walk on the moon.

He felt so small, so insignificant in the eyes of the world. He was barely a speck in a single moment of time. He was only a grain of sand in the make-up of the solar system.

 

And it was so very enlightening.

Because no matter how bad things got. No matter how horrible things turned out. He was still only a grain of sand. His problems were so small, so useless to him.

His problems could not destroy his life. They could not make the end of the world. His problems were never as bad as somebody else's.

And he carried that thought throughout his life.

He always kept that night in his memory, because that was the night Stiles opened his eyes. He lived by that fact, lived knowing no matter how bad it got. It would always get better, nothing would change. The world and the solar system would still be waiting for him when they were resolved. And he could begin again.

 

He'd lived his whole life by that fact...and now it felt so irrelevant.

Yes, he still knew that he was still a tiny speck in this world. He knew he didn't mean much to the world, and to someone else, millions of miles away. His life didn't effect many others.

But, right now...he felt so alone.

 

Because he was alone. Not alone in the physical sense. He had more than enough arms cradling him as Stiles was lowered into the ground. Enough love to suffocate him was his best friend was buried under piles of dirt. Had enough tears shed for the loss of Stiles and their bond, standing over Stiles body as his tombstone was placed on top of him...pushing him further into the ground and further from life.

 

He was alone, but so was the Solar system. It was so simple and yet so complex. It was beautiful, isolated, lonely.

And Scott wished more than anything that he could be up there now. Up, away from whatever his existence was classified as and into the stars.

Go to a place he where he could never come back.

 

Because ever since a Stiles left him, everything had been a chore. He was forced to move. Forced to identify Stiles body. Forced to watch his brother get lowered into the ground.

And he was just wanted to be free. Wanted to be balanced. Wanted to be at peace with this life.

 

He didn't want to be so alone.

He couldn't remember what it felt like not to have Stiles at his side. Stiles had been there ever since he could remember, and everything before that was a blur. Stiles was a constant presence in his life. A faithful friend. A brother.

And now he was gone. The bond that had bound them had been torn the moment Stiles' sickly heart stopped beating. Had been ripped from him, taking out a chunk of Scott's heart in the process.

Because Stiles was dead.

And the world seemed so alien, so unfamiliar. He felt smaller than ever before. He was still a grain of sand, but he was now buried under layers and layers of other grains. Never to see the stars, never to see the sun. Never to live happily. Forever repressed with the fact that he had lost his best friend.

He knew he would never forget Stiles. It was impossible to.

Stiles was like a hurricane. A flurry of movement and quick thinking, darting from one place to another. His mouth and his words could move mountains too. He had been Scott's life, his go to guy that kept him going. Kept reminding him of the future that was always brighter on the other side.

But now he was gone. And that future seemed too far away, the bright light fading back into darkness. Darkness that surrounded him from all angles, clouding and suffocating him.

And besides, he didn't want to live in a future without Stiles in it. And how could he? The future would never be brighter now. Not without Stiles in it.

Because Stiles had been his light. Stiles had been his biggest and brightest star, lighting the way through the darkness.

And now without him here. Everything was just too dark. Everything was cast in horrible shadows, stretching out behind him and covering him in darkness.

And it was never going to be bright again. The shadows would not leave. They would never go away.

They were permanently attached to Scott, their claws sunken into him just the same as his grief. Maybe one day it was be easier. Maybe one day his grief will fade.

But those shadows would cling to him. They would hang off him like his own shadow, dragging behind him with every step...to remind him of what he lost.

Not that he needed reminding. That was the only thing he didn't need.

But they still would. They would cling to him, digging their claws in deep and hooking them around his bones. They would never leave, at darkness would never set him free.

Because the brightest star was gone.

 

_Do not stand at my grave and cry;  
I am not there. I did not die._


	12. Drowned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles stared into the river.
> 
> He could barely see the light tinge of blood that whispered of what happened here. The tiniest of hints swirling away by the stream. And the search party was right there. Right on the other side of the river, their torch beams sweeping the earth, his name on their lips.
> 
> But they were walking the wrong way.
> 
> Stiles knew what had had happened here. Knew he drowned, that now he was simply a fragment of himself. That is body was laying beneath the water, resting on the river bed.
> 
> But nobody else would.

Stiles stared into the river.

He could barely see the light tinge of blood that whispered of what happened here. The tiniest of hints swirling away by the stream. And the search party was right there. Right on the other side of the river, their torch beams sweeping the earth, his name on their lips.

But they were walking the wrong way.

Stiles knew what had had happened here. Knew he drowned, that now he was simply a fragment of himself. That is body was laying beneath the water, resting on the river bed.

But nobody else would.

He knew he probably shouldn't be here. That he should have left when his body did, like every other normal person.

But then again, he was never really normal. In life, and apparently...neither in death. Because that's what this was.

This was death.

The cold abyss. The lack of life. The soft silence. The fading of memories. He'd left the world of the living. Left life. But yet he was still here.

Because life didn't want him. And, like most things in his life...

Neither did death.

He was unwanted. And that should be confronting and upsetting. But Stiles didn't really feel it. It upset him, sure.

But he was used to it. He was used to the feeling of disapproval at his presence. And the squinted gazes at the sight of him. The annoyed huffs when he spoke.

He was used to being unwanted. To being alone.

This didn't make a difference.

...except for the fact that, this time, he had no way of escaping.

Because he knew he should be leaving this place. Should be on his way to whatever came next...Whatever came after life. His story had ended. There should be no more adventures or chapters. His book was over, and there would be no sequel.

He should be able to leave. To let go.

He didn't know what kept him here. But, in his extensive research which nobody appreciated, he had found that ghosts stayed when the felt they had something more to do.

But Stiles didn't know what that was. He had nothing more in this world that he needed to fix, no memories that he needed to give closure to.

Because he just wanted to go. Wanted real death. Not his horrific in-between. He just wanted to not be stretched across two planes. Wanted to be able to be complete. To be whole.

...he wanted to see his mom.

Wanted to be with her, floating through the edges of time. He wanted to be whole again, not without the pieces that had been taken from him.

Pieces taken by his mothers death, by his best friends curse, by the presence of death constant in his life.

He just wanted to be complete. For everything to just stop. He wanted to just die. To be dead for real. Because he was, but he also wasn't.

He just wanted it all to stop. And he wanted to just go.

But not even the world would grant him that.

 

....

 

Scott wished he could say something changed with Stiles death.

Wished that he could say that before he died, he managed to complete his goals. Wished he could say that Stiles left peacefully.

He wished he could say that with his death, people realised something special. That somehow with his death they had been able to cure a disease or discover something that could save millions.

Wished that he could say that they'd named a building after him or wrote a sonnet about his bravery.

But, none of that happened.

 

He died under the radar. During the night when nobody spared him a thought, all caught up in their own lives. Nobody knew how or when. He was just gone.

And they never found his body.

 

They looked, though. For weeks, _months_.

But then the case was closed. Everyone went home, the deputies to their families and the investigators to their sparkly city apartments.

But...the Sheriff went home to a empty house. No lights on inside to mark any other presence. He went home to the cold and the dark.

And he slept amongst the ghosts of his wife and son.

Scott knew he would never recover. Because this time there would be no Stiles forcing him to get up, to _eat_. So, he was just going to fade away. Fade into the mattress of his bed, looking out the window and into the woods that took his son.

Because they didn't even know what took him. What killed him.

The case had been marked a mystery. A cold case that was never going to be closed, never going to be solved.

But the Sheriff knew. He knew what had taken his son, in his bones and in his blood. He just didn't consciously know it, and he probably never would. Because it would be too had to bear.

And he'd already lost enough.

Scott had no idea, though. Without Stiles body, nobody would truly know for sure.

The pack had changed since Stiles death. It was quieter, slower. And when they faced problems they always look around the bouncing presence or listening for his sarcastic remarks.

Because something within them died with Stiles. Might it be their humanity or their connection to mundane normal life. Because Stiles had represented that life could still go on when supernatural invaded it. That he could still move on and be the same as he was. That he didn't have to change himself or to be special to keep up.

And now he was gone.

And it felt like the next blow would truly break them.

 

....

 

Stiles was in the garage of his house, sitting in the baby blue jeep.

His jeep.

Just before he died, he and his dad had fixed up his jeep. They finally found the time to clean her all out and not just do a quick job of it. But, really it had just been a excuse to bond.

Because he and his dad were both awkward people. They needed to be doing something when they talked. So, they fixed his jeep.

And they talked about everything and nothing, scrubbing at gunk on his car battery and fixing his breaks. They even washed it up, even if they probably got more wet and soapy than the actual car.

They finished three days before Stiles died.

He was going to drive his dad to see him mom that weekend. Doing something together. Something they both understood, simple and tender. Because they lived in worlds that couldn't intersect. Stiles ran with Wolves and his father was a Sheriff.

But they could do that. They could empathise in each others pain since they both felt it. But not anymore.

Because then his dad lost him too.

 

Stiles was interrupted from his thoughts with the garage door slamming open. His dad was home. And he was drunk.

Stiles watched helplessly as he stumbled around, trying to get to the spare fridge that housed his beer.

Stiles watched as he chugged one down, trying to drown away the hurt.

He threw the empty bottle to the side, smashing on the concrete. And then he got another, but his frenzy had left him. He just shut the door, nursing the beer slowly. But then he turned. And from the inside of the car, Stiles saw the visible pain in his eyes. Because he was looking at the only thing he had left of his son. Of the time and the memories.

The sheriff suddenly lurched forward, lifting up his beer to smash it against the window. Stiles only sat, watching the beer stop just before the glass. The glass Stiles had polished so lovingly, doing a weird Karate Kid voice as he narrated his movements. And at which his dad had laughed.

Stiles could only sit and watch as his father broke down. John slid down the side of the jeep, his beer dangling weakly in his hand as the other reached up to gingerly touch the glass. As though he could absorb the memory of Stiles here and make it real. Like he could bring Stiles back.

But Stiles didn't come back.

Instead his ghost sat inside the car, his own translucent hand reaching up to touch his hand to the glass, matching his fathers.

"God, Stiles." His father cried, and tears fell down both their cheeks. "Why did it have to be you?"

Stiles watched as his tears filled up his own eyes. Only becoming real tears as they fell upon the seat, droplets of salty water.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to let you go." His father cried, and Stiles sobbed with him.

"I'm sorry too."

 

....

 

Stiles knew what he wanted.

He knew now. Because his life had not been properly closed. Everything had just been shoved in a dark corner and the door be wedged shut.

He wanted to be found.

He wanted his friends and father to find him. Wanted to be properly let go by them all. Because their grief had been handled in the same way as he'd handled his problems.

Shoved into that dark corner.

He wanted for them to start to heal. To heal properly, not with the shard of his missing presence in their chests. He wanted to remove himself properly, solidly. To be gone completely.

He was gone. He shouldn't still be hanging around to haunt them. Not in memory or in presence. He wanted to be let go. Let his memory be carried away by the wind.

And he wanted them to move on. To continue.

Because the world still rotated on its axis. The sun still rose and set everyday. The seasons still passed them by.

They needed to go with it. Needed to keep moving, to catch up with the world.

They shouldn't have stopped where he did. Shouldn't have seized up and stopped because he had been taken so suddenly. They needed to continue their lives because he no longer could live his.

Everyone had to move on. And, maybe, when they did....he might be able to as well.

That would be nice, wouldn't it?

A nice happy ending to this all. Nice closure to the story, a happy epilogue to a rather short book. A ending that somehow made up for the lack of a substantial story.

Wouldn't that be nice?

 

....

 

Stiles stood in his house, haunting like any regular ghost should. But he wasn't here to cause pain or grief. For revenge or guilt. He was here to fix things...Just like he always had in life.

His father was out at work, stumbling through his life. Stiles could see the damage his own death had done. Takeout packages laid everywhere, remnants of highly unhealthy food.

It was almost like his father was trying wither away.

...and Stiles didn't blame him too much. He'd only been fighting his health for Stiles' sake. Now Stiles was gone.

He was dead too.

And he didn't really know how to help his dad . He could write some papers or something, sure. But what his dad needed was closure.

... Because right now he was just a big open and festering wound.

They all needed closure. His father, Scott, Derek...this would be the best way. Because he was going to have to clean out that wound before he closed it up.

He was going to have to reopen the wounds.

...he had to make them find his body.

And it would be win win. Wouldn't it? Everyone gets their closure. Stiles gets his oblivion.

 

The problem was giving the incentive to trek out into the woods and dig his body out from where it nested in the river bed. Giving them a reason to reopen their festering wounds and clean them out. Let themselves heal.

 

He just hoped his body wouldn't be too decomposed when they finally found him. Because they would find him.

They _would_.

 

.....

 

He decided to start at Derek's. He and Derek never got on much, so if it didn't work and he scared the shit out of Derek...it was no harm no foul, right?

He certainly hoped so. It wasn't like he really knew what he was doing. And he wouldn't be able to just take it back.

 

He realised that night in his jeep that anything produced from his ghostly form would before substantial when it touched something that wasn't him.

So while Derek slept on the couch, bags under his eyes from the days of searching through books and old tombs, trying to find something...anything.

 

Because if there was something Derek Hale hated, it was the not knowing.

 

Stiles watched him sleep for a little bit before he stood and walked over to the windows of his loft. He couldn't use his tears. Derek wouldn't see them.

So instead he used his blood.

He bit at his wrist until it bled, since nothing else could really do anything but give a dull pressure. And he would know. He tried to see if he would truly die by stabbing himself in Scott's kitchen.

The thing just went though him.

He bled on the floor, but he kept dipping his fingers in his blood as he drew on the windows. He was loosing a lot of blood, but he didn't need it anymore. He was already dead.

He steps back from his work, the plaid shirt he died in stained with his blood. Bright red letters spread across the lightening windows panes, the early morning shining brightly

" _I'm here, Sourwolf_." It stated in capital letters, the blood dripping down with gravity creepily. He hoped Derek didn't try to run. But at least he wouldn't tear off as soon as he woke before Stiles could give him some sort of sign.

 

He waited some time before Derek woke. He didn't know how long it was. But that was because time didn't apply to him anymore. He didn't have a natural body clock or anything. He was just floating aimlessly, day and night not making a difference to him.

But it made a difference to Derek.

 

So, Stiles watched as he opened his eyes. As he took in the bright red lettering. Smelt the blood and the Stiles that he hadn't smelt since the last time he sat in the dead boys room, trying to remember what it was like when Stiles was here.

Stiles watched as he sat up, eyes widening as he looked around.

"Stiles?" He whispered, more painful and quiet than Stiles had ever heard. Oops. Stiles shouldn't have started with Derek.

Stiles fumbled to think of something that was going to show he was still here. But Derek had moved towards the windows and Stiles sighed. That was the hard thing. He could never keep up with the living.

 

It was so hard to just stay with it. To pay attention and think on his feet.

But then Derek was looking at the words, fingers against the bloodied glass. And he was right next to Stiles. Stiles could feel the life radiating from Derek, and he craved it. Wanted it so bad.

But Stiles was used to dreaming about things he couldn't have.

So he lifted his bloodstained fingers, placing them gently on Derek's arm. Derek didn't noticed for a few seconds, because he couldn't feel the pressure of Stiles' touch. But he felt the air cooling the liquid on his arm.

He flinched, staring down at the bloodied fingertips on his bicep. Stiles waited, watching, staring at Derek as he stood only a foot away, bathed in the early morning sunlight.

Derek looked around him, looking at the shadows case by the light. But only his shadow was stretched across the ground.

"Stiles?" He asked. And Stiles responded.

He bit at his arm again, letting more blood fall. Derek flinched at the sudden appearance of blood on the floor, the wet slap of it hitting the concrete becoming the only sound in the silence. Stiles lifted a finger to the glass, finger drenched in blood as he started to draw.

A bloodied Triskelion started back at him. He smiled, the symbol looking vaguely recognisable. He heard Derek's intake of breath as he recognised it too.

The symbol of the Hale pack. Of their pack.

"Oh god, Stiles. You're here, you're here!" He cried, shaking with his discovery. Stiles smiled a little, feeling warm with the recognition.

Be traced on another pane of the window. He had to dip his fingers in the blood again to complete the words.

" _Please find me?_ " He asked. Derek read the words.

"Find you? But you're here?" Derek asked, confused. Stiles sighed sadly, writing once again.

" _My body_."

He flinched as he heard a dry sob from behind him. He turned, looking at Derek who had made the sound. Derek's eyes were staring at the words, eyes wide.

And that's when Stiles realised

...Derek had never truly believed that he was dead.

He legitimately thought that Stiles could be alive. He just thought Stiles was invisible for some supernatural reason. But this wasn't anything like that. It wasn't magic or fantasy.

This was death.

"I'm sorry." He wrote on the window, his own finger shaking as guilt and emotional pain coursed through him. The writing came out sporadic with his shaking hand.

Derek was just staring, blinking away hot tears. Stiles felt as though he was watching Derek come apart. Fall apart even more than he already had been.

Stiles was doing the opposite of helping.

He was only making it worse. He wasn't helping them heal. He wasn't taking the shard of glass from his chest.

He was driving it deeper.

Stiles bit on his lip suppressing his own sob as Derek shattered in front of him.

" _I'm_ _so sorry!"_ He cried, before turning and disappearing into the river waters in which he was taken.

And where he belonged.

 

......

 

_Stiles cried, hysterical sobs mixed in with his incomprehensible pleas for help. His pleas mixing unrecognisably with his his tears, but just the pure instinctual sound of them radiated in the empty night. Pleas for somebody to help him, save him._

_But there was nobody there._

_He couldn't remember getting here. Or why. He'd fallen asleep in his warm bed and woken up drowning in a freezing river, miles away._

_But he knew one thing...there were hands pushing him down. Hands keeping him beneath the water, hands that belonged to a person._

_A person that was drowning him._

_He screamed, his pleas snatched by the water as he was pushed down again, down into the unbearable cold._

_The freezing coldness enveloped him... it hit him like a freight train. He screamed in unbearable pain, inhaling more of the freezing coldness and it went down his throat like ice fire and burning his lungs. It felt like somebody had shoved shards of glass down his throat._

_He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He screamed again, the good, pure air in his lungs replaced by the unbearable glass shards that ripped him up from the inside out._

_He kicked and struggled, hands around his throat, trying to find more of that pure and beautiful air._

_His head broke the surface and he lifted is stiff limbs and clawed at the hands holding him, trying to stay afloat. He tried to fill_ _his lungs with the pure oxygen, but they were full of the burning pain._

_He only got a small bit of that precious air, until he heard a muted curse and was shoved back down again._

_The glass shards where all around him now, cutting into his once warm and soft pyjamas and skin. He clawed away at the feeling, his blunt nails only adding more pain._

_He felt tears run from his tightly closed eyes as he choked on the glass shards... he opened his eyes, trying to find a way he could get out of this. Because he always found a way out. Always found a way around. Found a way that always saved them._

_...Just his luck that he couldn't find a way, when it came to saving_ himself.

_But as he opened his eyes, it only allowed the glass shards to stick into his eyes. He screamed again, slamming his eyelids shut as he fought against the pain and against the hands._

_He forced his eyes open again, screaming in pain as he felt the glass shards stick into his vulnerable eyes. He tried to look for something, anything that could help him._

_But there was nothing but the endless depths and the hands keeping him there._

_He kicked and struggled, trying to get his stiff and dying limbs to obey him. The surface drew closer, the hands weakening on him as he inched towards air and life. He felt a spike of relief though the pain... overwhelming it and filling him with hope..._

_Until he was hit over the head_.

_It shocked him, his dying mind not allowing enough coordination to understand what had happened. He didn't understand, his mind was not making sense._

_He clawed at the hands as another blow hit him, robbed of his sight and hearing. He struggled, terror beginning to fill him as his air disappeared and he sunk back down again._

_That was when he realised. His murderer slammed a rock into his skull. Because this was his murderer._

_He was going to die here._

_We could feel the glass shards closing in on him... it was everywhere, crushing him and suffocating him. There was no way up, no way out._

_He was trapped._

_He screamed, the full pain and terror sinking in._

_His air left him... he felt himself sinking._

_No... he couldn't die... he couldn't..._

_He tried to remember how this all happened...how he'd ended up this way._

_Why was he here again?_

_Where was he?_

_He tried to breathe unconsciously, his body trying to save him while his mind failed him. He sucked in more of those horrible and terrible glass shards._

_It was all over him again. All over his body, cutting his skin apart. It was inside him, ripping him up from the inside._

_Why?_

_Why was this happening to him?_

Why?

_Why was he dying?_

_He felt the sharp glass shards digging into his mind as he sank to the bottom of the lake, blood dissipating from his unmoving lips._

**_Why?_ **

 

.....

 

Stiles curled up in the cave near the river, watching the seasons pass.

The cave was cold and dark, the freezing rain dripping through the cracks. It had almost been a year, now.

A year.

His body was frozen in the lake, sunk beneath a layer of river muck. Enclosed in a icy shell until spring.

Because he still hadn't been found. Hadn't been buried or laid to rest. He was just waiting and hoping. Because whenever he tried anything all he didn't was hurt them. But, as he watched the autumn turn into winter. He was staring to think that maybe...

Maybe he didn't deserve to be.

He'd thought this whole time that he deserved to be laid to rest. Deserved to be found. But there were up hundreds of cases where the body was never found. Hundreds of bodies, decaying into nothing. And he he was, complaining.

He deserved this eternal torture.

Because this was torture. The not knowing and the waiting for something that may never come.

And Stiles was never a very patient person. But now he had to be. He was forced to be. There was nothing for him to look forward to. Nothing that he could do to get out of this.

Because he could do nothing else but wait.

...and hope he withered away soon.

 

....

 

"You had to expect this, Derek." Peters voice materialised from behind where Derek stood staring out the window of their old house. Derek didn't reply, just hoping he'd leave him to mourn the uncountable amount of people he'd lost both here and elsewhere.

"You can't protect them from everything, Derek."

"Yes. Thank you for that, Peter. I do realise that now since Stiles is _f*cking dead_!" He snapped suddenly.

"Just trying to be helpful."

"You always say that. But you never actually help. What the hell do you want? Why are you still in this town? Do you like manipulating me? Does it give you _joy?!_ " Derek hissed, hands clenched threateningly as he moved away from the window.

"You know I can't feel anything anymore."

"Yeah. You got the easy way out. You don't have to feel. You don't have anyone else to feel for. You don't even try, do you? You push everything away so you will never have to feel."

"You are one to talk."

"Oh, shut up Peter. I tried. I'm trying! I tried to rebuild. Tried to fix things. But you just sit and wallow in these ruins. I tried, okay! That's more than you ever did."

"And where does that leave you?"

Derek couldn't reply. Because after all his effort. All his fighting and throwing and cradling and protecting...he still lost so much.

The life he built was still moving upwards. The building still being built upon itself. But, pieces had fallen in the process. He'd lost its beauty, his glossy light of contentment. He'd lost its strength, the building growing cracks.

And now he'd lost the frame. What allowed it to keep building up and up.

Because his building was his pack.

And he'd lost them.

So there he was. With a ugly teetering tower. And he felt like he was trying to stick it back together with sticky tape. Keep it all together and keep it all inside.

Because he still had a pack. Still had a life. But without them, it was no longer complete. Teetering, threatening to come apart. To crumble to the ground.

Just like his family did. Like their home did.....But this time Derek would be the flame.

Because he couldn't kept it together. He was supposed to be the foundation. But the weight of the fallen piece still weighed on him. Still held him down.

Because Stiles had been the final straw.

He'd been in a constant state of denial. The pack fading with his absence. Because he refused to admit that one that was never supposed to be hurt, was dead. It just couldn't cross his mind, not even when he was shouted at to stop dreaming. To get up and move on.

Quite hypocritical of Scott, Derek would have to say.

Because not of them really moved on. Not with the tickling thought in the back of their minds. The thought that will all the supernatural in the world....maybe he wasn't dead. Maybe he was just kept from them,

And, as if it wasn't hard enough. They knew they would never find him. They had no way to. So they had to sit with the ringing thought, useless and trying to forget and move forward.

Now Derek knew for sure. But, then again, there had been that weight in his chest that already knew.

And now he knew what he must do.

They would only really move on when they knew Stiles is in his grave. Because, no matter how much that sight would hurt...they would know. Because humans stayed in their graves.

And then they would always know where Stiles was.

For a child that had never been where he was supposed to, had always popped out of nowhere with a stunningly and surprisingly helpful fact or alarming sass....it kinda hurt.

Because Stiles was never going to pop out of the shadows. He wasn't going to arrive at Derek's door, unannounced. His jeep wasn't going to tear into the school parking lot and surprise everyone.

Because he would be in his grave.

It was both a small relief and a overwhelming sadness.

Just like most things in Derek's life.

Which led to Peters words swirling in his head. "Where does that leave you?" Because it left him with nothing. Fighting a battle against death. Against a entity that always won. You could cheat it, sure. But it always found you in the end.

Found Erica. Found Boyd.

Found Stiles.

And Derek couldn't help but feel, that maybe, just maybe..... it might be easier if he let it find him too.

 

....

 

Stiles was roused from his dull conscious by the crunch of sticks outside his cave.

He jumped, scrambling backwards...before he relaxed. There was nothing that could hurt him. He had no reason to be afraid.

Because nobody could hurt him more than this.

Because not only did he die, he had to live to see the damage it did. People always said the dead got the easy way out. They didn't have to deal with the hole they had left behind.

But Stiles had to deal with it. But he could only look, and not do a single thing to help. Couldn't make it better, couldn't soothe the pain.

He had to sit and watch.

Stiles stood, looking out of his unneeded shelter to look at what may have disturbed him, his previous instinctual fear now gone.

There was nothing for a moment. Just icy wind and water heavy air, nature threatening to rain down on the earth again. Stiles shrugged to himself, turning to go back into his gave and fade as far as possible from life as he could.

Because it was easier to pretend then to feel everything he couldn't have.

But another twig snapped, from where he had just turned from. Stiles whispered his head too look...

And it felt like a dream.

Because in this semi-existence, he couldn't do anything but float, separated from the earth and from life. But, he could also dream and hope. But something that was the worst part. Dreaming of everything he knew was there. The things he had once upon a time. Thinking and hoping for the things he would never have again.

He was a idiotic wreck.

But now, he didn't feel so stupid. Because it was like a dream come to life. Come into existence. Like it was finally something that was going right.

Because there was Scott.

It was all in his head, he knew. Scott probably just went for a walk in the woods. He wasn't here to see Stiles. Somebody hadn't come to him for the first time in this past year.

He looked to much into it. Unhealthily so. But Stiles didn't care. Who was going to blame him from dreaming.... Just this once?

There was nobody to judge him anyway. Or to see him, for that matter.

Because he wasn't real. Didn't fit in the world. Because life didn't want him, and neither did death.

He wasn't apart of the world, barely floating through it. Filled with pitiful hopes and dreams, which were never going to come true.

He knew that. Knew it well.

But he just didn't care anymore.

Scott was on the other side of the river, the icy water at his feet flowing sluggishly. Winter was almost over, and the ice was melting ever so slowly.

It was good. But it won't save Stiles more false hope of being found.

 

But there was something strange about watching your best friend stand barely a meter from where your body lay. Unseeing and completely unaware. The water covered up any scent of death or blood there. Stiles scent had been wiped away completely only a week after he'd died. And that was a long time ago.

Stiles' body had probably become apart of the river bed by now. But Stiles didn't really know, or want to. Because he didn't want to see his own body.

Because it would only remind him of all the thing she couldn't have. Reminding him that he used to be apart of it. That he couldn't simply just force himself back inside so he could live again. He'd been completely severed from his body.

It was like it wasn't even him anymore.

But then again, it was the only thing that had ever really been. Because whatever he was right now didn't even exist. He didn't exist. Didn't take up any space, didn't weigh upon the earth, didn't have any matter.

He didn't exist. He didn't matter.

...literally.

But Stiles had plenty time to think and contemplate whatever the hell this was later. Right now, there was Scott. Right there.

Scott looked fine, if a little heartsick. Stiles smiled lightly, moving to stand on the opposite side of the river, his body between them.

Scott looked sad, yes. Worn and tired. But....he was so wonderfully alive.

Stiles could feel his overwhelming warm and life from where he stood, across a barrier he could never cross. Because Scott was life. And he was dead.

Not only dead. But here. For no reason, with no explanation. He just was.

And then Stiles brain was filled with so many things. So many thoughts and ideas he hadn't expressed, all condensed within him. The past years worth of stray thoughts that led him nowhere, but continued to bounce in his brain.

Words he had always expressed to Scott, not often making sense but somehow he'd always understood. Because that was how they were. Weird and almost always confused with life and what it was asking of them. But, no matter what they had. No matter where their lives were headed or what foe they faced...they always had each other.

 

Stiles didn't know how much he had missed it until now.

Because he felt it. The sharp pang of longing and loneliness.

Because Stiles was so lonely. So scared of all the unanswerable questions constantly resurfacing within him. Why he was here? What he'd had done to deserve this? How was he still here? Why here? Why now? Why? Why?

He didn't understand. He didn't know what he did to deserve this, why he had to die or why he was still here.

And he wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and yell. Shriek with all his confusion and pain. Hit things, kick things and cry out with the overwhelming confusion and sadness and loneliness.

And he wanted to be understood.

He wanted Scott to just be able to sit there, like he always had. Sit on Stiles bed, as Stiles paced his room ranting and raving about everything and nothing all at the same time. He wanted Scott to sit there, nodding and giving input where it was needed, but backing off when Stiles just needed to talk. To express all the emotions squished up inside him, bubbling out of control.

But he couldn't have that.

He was dead. Scott couldn't hear him. And Scott refused to even go in Stiles' room. Let alone sit on his bed to pretend that Stiles could still be here, and that everything was normal.

But Stiles couldn't take it anymore. Just seeing Scott here, looking like he needed Stiles to pop out of nowhere and start ranting. Just looking so normal and so full of life and Stiles wanted that. He wanted to be heard. He just wanted to have that, one. last. time.

He wanted to feel like he mattered.

And that his body beneath them wasn't the only thing he had keeping him behind. The thing that constantly remind him of all the things he couldn't have.. He wanted to know the answers. He wanted to yell incomprehensible questions, but have them understood anyway.

But, God.....he just wanted to be heard.

Because being found didn't seem to be so important anymore. It wasn't his body that need to be found and laid to rest. His soul needed to be. Because he needed to understand. Needed to know. He needed to be at peace with everything he'd left behind.

Needed to be content. To be at peace with what he could no longer have. He needed to be okay with the fact that he could never have those things again.

And then maybe they might be too.

Because maybe if they stopped mourning...he might too?

Because they were mourning him. And he was mourning them. Mourning the life he could no longer have. Mourning the fact that his presence was no gone from their lives, that he would never feel those things with them again.

Everyone needed peace. Needed to come to peace with life and what came with it.

Because Stiles was always going to die.

From the moment he was born, his life was supposed to go this way. He'd suffered his hardships and relished in his happiness. But he was always going to die like this.

Murdered. Drowned. At the bare age of sixteen.

...and he just wanted to know why.

And Scott always seemed to be able to make things right. Put things into perspective and make Stiles understand.

Because all Stiles had ever wanted was to understand.

Understand the world. Understand why life was hard. Understand what lived int the world with him. Understand life. Understand why he was here and what he was supposed to do.

He was just wanted to understand why he died.

And then maybe they will understand too.

Stiles bit into his wrist, letting the hot blood fall to the ground and piece the air with his hot and heavy scent. Stiles watched as Scott's head snapped up, the scent rolling over him like a humid heatwave.

"....I..?" Scott blurted, before his brain caught up and told him that wasn't the right thing to say. Stiles smiled, waiting for Scott to catch up.

"S-Stiles?" Scott finally asked the wind, eyes focusing on the blood that dripped onto the river bed, some sliding into the river where it was carried away in its slow current.

"Yeah?" Stiles said, even though Scott couldn't hear him. He just stood, waiting for the wheels to turn in Scott head and his curiosity to bring him over to this side of the river.

"Stiles?" He said a little clearer. And Stiles let more blood drop and its scent become more potent

Scott moved faster than Stiles could see, because the next second he was right next to Stiles. He'd jumped the freaking river. Stiles spat out a bitter laugh. He'd just jumped so easily. Got past that river like child's play.

He'd so easily past by the river that Stiles couldn't. He'd drowned there, unable to fight the river and his murderer. And Scott just jumped over it.

Stiles suddenly felt so weak.

Scott was sniffing at the blood, crouching next to Stiles' invisible form.

Stiles but his lip, suppressing his sudden influx of unnecessary emotion. Because he was just a ball of raging emotions, compressed into this semi-form. So full with grief and despair and anger.

It was pathetic what he'd become.

But Stiles continued, holding his arm so the blood would drip onto Scott. Scott flinched as he felt it on the top of his shoulder, swiping to see where it came from.

He stood, looking up. But Stiles dripped it onto his hand. Scott looked around and into of him, confusion and pain clear in his eyes.

Stiles reached forward gingerly, tapping the tip of his finger against Scott's skin. Scott flinched, nerves firing as he felt the cold blood appear on his skin.

" _Hi_." Stiles wrote.

"Stiles? Wha-...why?" Scott questioned, guilt and grief overtaking his expression.

Stiles frowned in sympathy, wanting nothing more than to comfort him.

" _I'm sorry_."

"Oh god, Stiles." Scott seemed to catch on, and Stiles was proud. "I'm so sorry too."

" _I'm in the river._ "

"Oh Stiles." Scott said, turning to look in the river. But Stiles touched his cheek, ring his attention back to his arm where Stoles was tracing more words.

" _I wanna go home_."

"It's okay. I'm...I'm sorry Stiles. We'll take you home." Scott said, voice breaking but managing to keep calm so he could concentrate.

Stiles felt warmth grow in his chest.

" _Thankyou, Scott_." And Stiles smiled - _happily_ \- the first real smile in a year.

They were talking. Actually talking. Just like all those other times. Like they always had.

...It seemed that not even death could take that from them.

 

....

 

By the time the pack arrived at the river, Derek had already found Stiles.

Derek wouldn't know that, staring at Stiles' body as he was. Cradling him as the river water in his clothes slowly returned to where it belonged. But he felt them lean over him, their faces sad. Lydia was crying. The Sheriff had brought the men from the funeral home, where Stiles would be finally laid to rest.

But Derek wouldn't let them.

Because then it would mean that Stiles was truly gone.

Isaac and Scott held Derek firmly as Lydia finally coaxed Derek into releasing him. But he couldn't watch. Derek turned into the trees, suddenly wanting nothing more than to be gone from this place. From death and dying and the _god damned f*cking pain._ But, he could still hear the rustling and the clanking of the gurney, echoing through the empty forest eerily. They were nearly gone before he turned back to stop them.

“Wait. One moment.” He must have sounded calm enough for them to stop when he said so. Stiles was covered with a sheet. Derek walked to the gurney and peeled the sheet back.

Derek just looked. Perhaps he had something to say but it was gone now.

It was too late.

Too late to save him, to help him. He couldn't do anything now. Powerless, helpless.

And he hated it.

Hated it. Hated this. Hated everything, because - God _damnit_ \- Stiles was supposed to be okay. He was the one that has to prove that they could move thought life normally. That it was okay to not continually fight to be stronger. That you could just accept who you are, that you don't have to change constantly to fit others, or even your own wants.

He was supposed to be the image that never died. The idea that kept living.

But it too had died with Stiles.

Derek just hadn't known it.

Not until he'd taken Stiles from the river bed, dead and limp and decaying. Been alone so long, with only his ghost forced to stay and to haunt the empty space he'd left behind.

Stiles, and everything he had represented, everything he had meant...died with him.

Because Stiles had died here.

They took Stiles away, the Sheriff's sobs echoing in the air. Scott hugged him as they left, and it was a bit alarming, but he needed it horribly. Scott and Isaac left before long (or maybe it had been a long time?), leaving just Lydia to watch Derek like a hawk.

He walked back into the tree line, his route to escaping this continual hell. Running away, just like all those other times. He made it halfway there. His legs slowly buckled and then he was sitting on the floor, staring into space. She joined Derek there and he thought that maybe she was holding his hand.

But he couldn't feel anything anymore.

 

....

 

Stiles was happy.

It was strange. One, because nobody was ever happy at funerals. Two, because he was attending his own funeral.

There were tears, crying and having as his body was lowered into the ground under eight watchful eyes. But Stiles could only feel relived. Because they were healing. They were going to get better. To move onwards... _forwards_.

They were moving with the world once again.

And Stiles couldn't be more content. Low standards, yes. But he couldn't just have everything he wanted. Death did that to you...took away all the small things in life and out everything into perspective.

It was strange that way. Finally understanding the word just when he could no longer be in it.

The Pack still didn't know that he had been murdered. That he'd been held down to freeze and drown. To choke on his own breath and he pieced by ice shards through his eyes. And...They also didn't know that it had been one of them that did it.

But it was okay.

He couldn't have everything.

He was gone now. The person that did it had no more reason to do such a thing. With Stiles dead, there was nothing in their way. It was morbid, but there was something about knowing you died for _something_ , even if it was for something bad.

Because then it meant that his death had done something. And helped somebody, somewhere, achieve what they wanted.

It was backwards and creepy. But so was his murderer.

So he just had to accept that. Just like he had to accept that there was really no reason _why_ he had to die. Just petty revenge and no reason for his life to be taken from him.

He just had to accept it. Accept the cards he was dealt and the fate he had recieved.

Because Stiles couldn't have everything.


	13. Graduation Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "As we look around here today at all the people who helped make us who we are, I know it feels like we're saying goodbye but we will carry a piece of each other into everything we do next. To remind us of who we are...and what we were meant to be."
> 
> She took another deep breath, opening her mouth to speak again before she was interrupted. By police sirens. Her eyes snapped immediately to the sheriff, Ignoring the murmurs running through the crowd.
> 
> And she didn't know how....but she just knew.
> 
> She knew Stiles was never going to arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now at 40,000 words! I don't really know what I'm doing, but I found an image that made my heart clench, and so i wrote this. I freaking figured it out! I can now post images! I feel so smart! All rights go to to the person that made it. And I used Gwen Stacey's Graduation speech as Lydia's, so all rights to MARVEL there. Thankyou for reading! 
> 
> SPOILERS: End of season three sadness...if you know what I'm talking about, continue. if not, go watch real Teen Wolf, not my mangy fic! :D

It was graduation.

Finally, damnit. HighSchool had been a long, drawn out nightmare of assignments and S.A.T's and Finals...And not to mention Werwolves. 

But it had been fuckin _awesome._

Best years of Stiles' life. It did have its hiccups and despairs, but they made it though. And that made it all worthwhile. You would think they would feel guilty for reaching this day, when the others couldn't. Feel saddened by their loss on the days they would have been just starting adult life.

But they could only feel happy.

Yes, there was a melancholic undertone, but they were gonna _live it._ They were going to yell and scream, throw their caps in the air and laugh and _smile_. Because she couldn't. Because she wouldn't, not ever.

They were gonna live this for her. For her memory.

Stiles stood in front of his mirror, which he'd had to tilt in recent years now. Cause he'd gotten taller, turned into a _man._ He was dressed in his long red cloak, the bright fabric reaching to his ankles. He was wearing his dress-y clothes beneath them, but with his converse sticking out the bottom.

He just had to piss Coach off one last time. In true Stiles Stilinski fashion.

But he had other alterations to his outfit too. His long red cloak and cap where identical to everyone else's, but, like the rest of his graduating pack, they added a little more. Each had a bracelet, shining on their left wrist...Bright and polished _silver_.

 Because they had to carry Allison with them, didn't they? Like, with her symbol on their wrists, she was there too...Enjoying the start of their lives.

 Even if hers had already ended.

Because that's what they said, didn't they? They were with you, not in mind nor body, but in spirit? Stiles certainly hoped so. Because she had deserved to feel this joy one last time. With all her hard work, despite the tragedy of her family and her history.

 .....Because she hadn't deserved to die.

 But Stiles had learnt to live with pain like this. Knew how to deal with the shattering and all consuming pain of knowing they didn't deserve what they got. Knowing that you could only sit and _watch_.

 He knew what it was like to live knowing they should still be here with you. That they would, if the world had been kind. But the world had not been kind to them. Never had. But it always felt the worst when they died young. Before they could even _live_. Before graduation.

 So they'd live it for her...it was the least they could do. 

Stiles smiled a little sadly, still looking at himself in the mirror as he saw his dad approach him in the reflection of his mirror.

 

"All ready?" The Sherrif asked, looking worn but happy. Stiles knew he had the thought of his wife in the back of his mind, knowing she wasn't here to see their son graduate.

But that was okay. They all had demons to overcome. Especially today. Because this was the mark of new beginnings. Of new life. But when life was released into the world, so was the thought of death.

But that was okay. 'C'est la vie', as they said.

"I think so." Stiles answered, running his fingertips over the velvet of his cap, clutched in his hands.

"Your mother would have been proud, Genim." Stiles smiled faintly at him in the reflection, his name bringing back the memories of his mother's voice speaking the same words as she sung him to sleep.

"I know...I know." Stiles said, feeling his dad rub a comforting hand on his bicep.

 "Well. I'm proud of you. Proud more than enough for the both of us." Sheriff said, smiling fondly at his son. Stiles turned around suddenly, enveloping him in one of those strong Stilinski hugs. They stayed in each others arms long after Stiles' grown settled back against his legs.

"Thanks, dad." He said into his fathers hair, and his dad clutched him tighter for a moment, before letting go. He stepped back to look his son right in the eyes, a strong stubbornness in his eyes that Stiles had inherited.

 "I will always be here, yeah? You can count on me to be kicking around here for a long time. Even if you move across the country for your new fancy job...I'll be here waiting, yeah? Il always be waiting for you." He finished, staring imploring at Stiles.

"Naw, dad! Your gonna get me all emotional and ruin my makeup!" Stiles pouted, but feeling the warmth in his chest from his fathers words.

"You are not wearing any makeup, Stiles."

"That's irrelevant!" Stiles laughed, and his fathers huffed a little too, used to Stiles' frankly awesome humour.

"Alright then, are you sure you wanna drive yourself?"

"Yeah. I'll be fine. You need to pick up Melissa, get your flirt on!"  Stiles smiled, and his dad swatted him over the ear affectionally.

 "There will be no flirting, Stiles. We are just friends." The Sheriff reprimanded, but Stiles saw right though _that_ façade.

"Friends that kiss?" Stiles smirk grew bigger until he started laughing again at his fathers expression. It wasn't the first time The Sheriff had been rendered speechless by his son.

"Enough of that." The Sheriff sighed with a smile. "You need to go graduate!"

 "Aw, no tears yet?" Stiles asked as he moved past this father to get his keys and printed speech, cap still in hand.

"Don't doubt me Stiles. There will be a river of tears when you stand up for your speech. I've packed tissues already"

 

Because yeah. Stiles was _Salutatorian_ , bitches.

And anyone could guess who got Valedictorian. The beautiful and mind blowingly intelligent Lydia Martin. She rocked that silver bangle much better than Scott or Stiles, even matching her earrings and necklace. Smart _and_ fashion coordinated.

That girl was going to be President someday. 

...And Stiles couldn't wait to see it.

 

He smiled as he reached the door of his bedroom, looking back at his room. The next time he entered this room, he would no longer be a high school student. 

Next time he sat at his desk or climbed into bed....he would be a graduated man. Ready to face this world with his pack by his side. 

He was _so_ ready for the world. _Come at me, bro_. He was so ready to kick college ass in the forensic degree spot waiting for him at Columbia.

And then he would be kicking criminal ass, just like his dad.

Stiles smiled at his room, taking one last lingering look before steeping away and down the hall. His father follower him out the room, going to pick up his things. Stiles had almost reached the front door when his eyes caught one of the only pictures they had on display of his mom.

She was smiling beautifully in the warm sunlight that steamed through a window, when his dad had caught her watching him playing outside. She was smiling as she watched Stiles, looking so naturally and domestically beautiful with her unbrushed dark hair and bright brown eyes...eyes that Stiles inherited.

 She was so beautiful when she smiled.

Stiles could imagine her with that smile on her face, watching from the crowd as he received his diploma. Her eyes bright as she leapt to her feet, clapping enthusiastically while hollering his name.

"I'll make you proud, mom." He whispered at the photo, before looking away with a reserved smile on his face.

Today wasn't the day to be sad. It was to be so damn thankful, to be _happy._ For the people and the lives they had lived, and to be happy that they were just on the ledge...just unlocking the gates to life.

Because they were freakin graduating!

 

Stiles couldn't _wait_. And neither could Scott, judging by the reckless texts that were getting more and more unintelligible. But they were allowed to be excited. Today was _their_ day. To party, to be reckless and loud, exuberant and bouncing off the walls. Or maybe that was just Stiles...

But he couldn't care less.

He stepped out the door, hollering a goodbye to his dad, and receiving one back.

"Drive safe, Stiles! See you on stage!" His dad yelled down the hall and Stiles smiled as he shut the front door. It was a warm night, but his grown was comfortable against his skin. Warm but not hot. Comforting. He was nervous about his speech, but not in the way you would accept. Not about public speaking...but about saying too much. Or going off topic.Because he wanted to leave a lasting impression, not as the spaz but as a awesome dude who was too totally better than his supernatural best friend Scott. That he could be _better_ as a human. Because his brain was all Stiles really had. But then again, it was _awesome_ because guess who was Salutatorian?

Dis badass over here. Not little puppy Scott.

 ...Although, Scott _did_ get a lacrosse scholarship. So, yeah. Everyone had their specialities

 Stiles still felt _awesome_ though. And nothing could break that today. Not _today_.  Because Stiles, Lydia and Scott had gone through enough. Today had to be awesome. Had to be supernatural free, _death_ free. Because today they were all just going to be human. Be teenagers, young and eager to face the full extent of the world....like they hadn't already seen the worst of it before.

But that only egged them on. Because now they were ready to experience the good there could be in life, done with more then their fair share of heartbreak. They were ready to be released, claws out and game faces _on_.

 It was time to move forward.

 

Stiles jumped into his jeep, chucking his cap and speech onto the seat beside him as he pulled the car into gear. He smiled as he pulled it into gear, taking off onto the street.

It was always peaceful, driving. Well, when he wasn't being chased by the supernatural...but he was gonna think about that today.

So yes. Driving had always been peaceful for Stiles. Languid and content. Knowing he could go at his own pace. Could pull over and buy churros if he wanted too. It was his freedom, his bit of leeway.

He could also come home when he wanted. Could drive where he wanted. It was a little taste of the freedom that Stiles was going to feel in full force when he threw that cap up into the air.

...But, it was little consolation for taking away his chance for freedom and _life_ only a moment later.

 

Because suddenly, he was not in control. His carefully planned day was spiralling along with his out of control car. And he could only sit, his mouth open in surprise and fear. He felt everything turn, his speech and cap flying into the air, almost levitating in a small moment of clarity. That moment where his heart leapt up his throat and everything went eerily _still,_ paper halting midair and cap stationary against the windshield-

Before it was all slammed to a stop.

And Stiles hadn't known that trees could do so much damage, because not even the Nemeton hurt as much as this.

 

.........

 

The lacrosse field was filled with a sea of red, capped heads all blending in together. There were smiles across all faces, laughter echoing. Except for Lydia, Scott, the Sheriff and Melissa. Slight concern was evident on their faces, the furrow of brows and tapping of feet.

"Why is he always late?" Lydia sighed, but it was evident to all that she was worried.

"He left before I did. He probably got lost." The Sheriff added.

"On the way to school?" Melissa questioned.

"Who knows, right? Stiles can get lost anywhere." Scott appeased, a smile on his lips. Stiles was probably just around the corner. He couldn't wait to go party afterwards. Lydia was hosting, of course. Stiles had always wanted a perfumed invite from Lydia, and he'd finally gotten one.

But Scott had only smiled when he'd seen it pinned up on Stiles' pin up board, covering one of the supernatural things they were investigating.

Because today was about graduating. The supernatural could wait, just for today.

 Just for today.

 

"Alright all you terrors, take your seats so we can hurry up and make it so I'll never have to deal with you again." Coach’s voice echoed front the stage set up in the middle of the field.

Scattered laughter came from the teens as they all found their spots. Lydia and Scott looked hesitant, but the Sheriff smiled.

"You know him, he's probably planned some grand entrance." He said, and they nodded minutely, smiling before moving off to their own seats.

Lydia moved to the front, feeling a little uneasy. She didn't know if it was the nerves for her speech, or the absence of Stiles' familiar presence. But, she couldn't let that stop her. She was independent and _Valedictorian_ , for crying out loud.She could do this.

She sat at her slightly adorned seat, a gold lace decorating it. She sat, adjusting her gown. She tried to avoid it, but glancing at the silver-laced seat beside her made something grow cold in the pit of her stomach.

She tried to smile at Coach who gave her a confused look at the absence by her side. She shrugged, and he released an aspirated sigh

"Okay! Now that _most_ of you are seated, the proceedings will begin." He said rather formally. "Introducing your Valedictorian, Lydia Martin!" He cried, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

Lydia let a winning smile stretch across her face, shoving away the ice in her stomach. She stood and gracefully ascended the stairs. 

She cleared her throat as she reached for the microphone.

""I know that we all think we're immortal, we're supposed to feel that way, we're graduating!" She said, and whistles came from the sea of students. "The future is and should be bright, but, like our brief four years in high school, what makes life valuable is that it doesn't last forever, what makes it precious is that it ends."

She took a deep breath, Allison face smiling in her mind, eyes bright and happy. Lydia tried to believe that she was happy for her know. That she was proud of what she had become.

"...I know that now more than ever." The crowd was silent for a moment as she composed herself, and then she continued with a smile. "And I say it today of all days to remind us that time is luck. So don't waste it living someone else's life, make yours count for something. Fight for what matters to you, no matter what. Because even if you fall short, what better way is there to live?" 

Allison had fallen short, but God had she lived so splendidly in the time she had. And she fell so gracefully, like a falling silver star.

"As we look around here today at all the people who helped make us who we are, I know it feels like we're saying goodbye but we will carry a piece of each other into everything we do next.To remind us of who we are...and what we were meant to be." She took another deep breath, opening her mouth to speak again before she was interrupted.

By police sirens. Her eyes snapped immediately to the sheriff, Ignoring the murmurs running through the crowd.

And she didn't know how....but she just _knew._

She knew Stiles was never going to arrive.

 

A police car pulled up by the field, two solemn police officers steeping out of the car. She wanted to yell, scream to the Sheriff. But her voice caught in her throat. Her only talent was to scream, and she couldn't even do that. She was frozen still, forced to watch as the officers made their way to the Sheriff. The crowd went completely silent, seeming to sense the importance of this moment. She saw Melissa's confused expression next to the Sheriffs, but he was only watching the officers carefully.

"Sir?" One of the men asked, standing in front of him.

"Yes, Deputy Hinder? Is there something wrong?" The Sheriff questioned, faced schooled blank.

"I'm afraid so...would you like to be told elsewhere?" The other man asked, eyes flicking to the crowd.

"No, sorry, but I can't afford to miss my sons graduation." The Sheriff said. Lydia seemed to be the only one that caught the officers’ wince at the word _son_.

But maybe that was because she was the only one expecting it 

"Sir...your son." The deputy seemed cautious. "Stiles, he....he was in a car accident."

Silence. Complete silence.

Lydia registered Derek's presence at the edge of the forest beside the field, his shock making him drop his guard far enough to be sensed. 

"W-What?" The Sheriff gasped, and Lydia could see him clutching Melissa's hand tightly. "Is he okay? Where is he?!"

"He spun out of control, and...and he went into a tree." The other officer said quietly, but everyone could hear it. The man wet his lips, eyes downcast as he said the next words.

"He died on impact, John."

 

Lydia's mind flashed with images of Stiles' body, crushed by metal, his blood staining his gown almost black. Of his carefully planned speech, splattered with bright crimson blood. His hair, pressed against his forehead and covering the fractures in his skull. His gown covering the shard of metal that speared into the flesh above his hip.

His body, his _corpse_ , impeded with fractured glass shards, his head resting against where it impacted with the tree.

Drivers side.

The tree had hit the drivers side, at 70 miles per hour.

 And then suddenly Lydia could feel Stiles pain. Could feel the moment of clarity he had the moment before death. She could feel even what he could not. Feel the pain of his actual _death_ , of what it had done to his body.

Because he'd died on impact. A bright spark one moment, and a shattered soul the next.

 

Lydia's throat unblocked, letting the pain build in her throat be released. She screamed out, a purely human sound of a women mourning. She fell to her knees, feeling Stiles' injuries in her own body. The splitting of her skull, the counting of her bones, the spearing of the metal and the millions of tiny sparks of pain, peppered across every surface of her skin.

She screamed, her sound of agony covering up Scott's howl and the Sheriffs sudden but painful sobs.

She didn't notice the crowd. The sea of healthy and happy human beings. Not marred by the death and sacrifice they had to deal with everyday.

Even today.

She barely felt Coach come up to try stabilise her, to stop her agonising cries. Because she couldn't feel anything but the pain of Stiles' passing.

On their fucking graduation day. He never got to give his speech. Never got to face the world. Never was allowed the freedoms he had earn't.

Because Stiles would have been Salutatorian. Second to only Lydia.

But now he was second to none other then death. Because people like him could never beat death. People like them. Because they always had something to loose. Allison...and then Stiles. There was always something to loose, every time death came knocking at their door. And there was nothing they could do to stop it. Because, even through all the struggles and the hardships, through the laughter and the mourning...

....they didn't even make it to graduation.

Not Allison. 

Not Stiles. 

Neither made it. Neither lived to see the moment they were finally free...

They both died horribly painful and bloody deaths, just moments before it would have been alright. Just when they were almost home free.

And they died as children. Seen all too much but _not_ _enough_. Not enough of what life could offer. The many lives they could have lived over their many decades. The love, the children, the families, the _pack_. Growing strong and full, filled with life and love...just like the original Hale Pack.

And they would never get to see it.

 

 

 

_How it should have ended..._


	14. Bullet to the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sherrif woke up to face the day. Every night as he closed his eyes, he dreaded this moment. The moment that came too quickly after he'd closed his eyes. Because it was the moment he woke up, mind blank of the memories, thinking his pain and angst was all a dream.
> 
> But then he would remember, and it was like being stabbed though the heart all over again. A constant, vicious cycle of forgetting his pain, then feeling it all at once. So he hated waking up for that reason.
> 
> But not as much as waking up to a world in which his son no longer lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But sad nobody seemed to like my last chapter...
> 
> Poem by Deborah Robinson
> 
> I'm on Winters holidays now, so I can write more :)
> 
> Enjoy.

_I only have a picture now,_  
_A frozen piece of time,_  
_To remind me of how it was,_  
_When you were here, and mine._

 

The Sherrif woke up to face the day. Every night as he closed his eyes, he dreaded this moment. The moment that came too quickly after he'd closed his eyes. Because it was the moment he woke up, mind blank of the memories, thinking his pain and angst was all a dream.

But then he would remember, and it was like being stabbed though the heart all over again. A constant, vicious cycle of forgetting his pain, then feeling it all at once. So he hated waking up for that reason.

But not as much as waking up to a world in which his son no longer lived.

Because he woke up to a picture of Stiles. A picture they'd taken, when he'd been unaware. Sneaked when he was laughing, with pure untainted happiness at something Scott said. It was a close picture, the light reflecting off his shining eyes and highlighting his face.

He was so beautiful.

Beautiful in the way Claudia was. He was so similar to her. The thick dark hair, the bright honey eyes, the God damned beautiful smile. He was so very pretty, but the sheriff might be biased. But he didn't really care what anyone else thought.

Because the picture had been taken on his last birthday.

His seventeenth. Because Stiles died when he was seventeen. Taken so simply, so easily, yet tearing the Sheriff's whole life apart.

So he didn't care what anyone else though of his son. Didn't care for their opinions of "can you tell him to be quiet? He's disruptive" or "He looks very unprofessional in those clothes."

Because they couldn't judge the boy that was dead.

 

 _I see your smiling eyes,_  
_Each morning when I wake,_  
I talk to you, and place a kiss,  
Upon your lovely face.

 

They told him he was insane for doing this to himself.

 

Insane for putting a photo of his dead son on his dead side table. For leaving it there, even years after he died. They told him it wasn't healthy, and that he needed to clean Stiles' presence from the house and let him go. They told him they needed to let him go, needed to release the ashes that sat on the mantle. To live his life.

But there was nothing to live for.

Stiles had been his reason to continue. To get up in the morning, to eat breakfast, to go to work. To live life, because somebody needed him.

Because now there was nobody left.

So he laid in bed. Slept and forgot. Woke and remembered. He hardly ate, withering away into the mattress. And he was allowed to, now. Because he was retired.

And he was alone.

He'd retired the day he cremated Stiles. The day his son turned to ashes. He quit, using his savings to get him until retirement age. Using the savings he'd worked hard for so he could take Stiles on a holiday to where his mother was born, for his eighteenth birthday.

But that day came with his burning, never to see what he could have become. Never to see where he came from, for to find out why he was here.

Because Stiles had always been so insecure. Unsure of his purpose in life. The Sheriff wanted to give him something of his mother to ground him as he began his adult life.

But he'd died before he got the chance. Before he could find his purpose in life. And that fact would haunt the Sheriff forever, along with his sons and his wife's ghosts.

Haunting his house and his mind.

 

 

 _How much I miss you being here,_  
_I really can not say,_  
 _The ache is deep inside my heart,  
And never goes away._

 

The Sheriff had forgotten what it felt like to live without pain.

To live without the ache in his heart. To wake up and not feel the harsh stab to his chest.

He forgot how it felt to be happy.

He missed Stiles. Missed him so damn much. Missed the loud bumps from his room as he knocked something over, his thundering steps down the stairs as he rushed to school.

He missed every part of him. Even his ADHD. Missed his monologues, missed his voice.

He didn't want to forget him. He couldn't. Because then it would feel like he was nothing anymore. Because he wouldn't be able to say he was a husband, nor a father.

Because he had nobody left to keep him whole.

 

 _I hear it mentioned often,_  
_That time will heal the pain,_  
 _But if I'm being honest,  
I hope it will remain._

 

Years past. Time continued.

The Sherrif didn't know what to do with himself. He had all this time, and nobody to share it with. Only a empty house and a empty heart.

But somehow, through it all, it got easier to get up in the mornings. Not in the way at it hurt less to be reminded of all the things he'd lost...but in the fact that he was familiar to it now. He knew he was going to wake up the same way, like a broken record.

But he didn't fight it. He just let the pain wash over him, let his tears fall. But then he would get up. And he would move around his house. He would eat. He would watch TV. Read the paper, and try not to think.

But he never went near Stiles' room. He wasn't ready for it. For the unmade bed that hadn't been touched since Stiles had left it that way.

Because it would be like breaking the bubble he'd settled over himself.

And he didn't know if he was ever going to be ready to face that.

 

 _I need to feel yo_ _u constantly,_  
 _To get me through the day,_  
I loved you so very much,  
Why did you go away?

 

Scott came over.

He was a grown man now, drinking age finally. He could drink legally, but the Sheriff had a sneaking suspicion he didn't drink at all.

Because he had nobody to drink with.

He asked the Sheriff if he wanted the pack to clean out Stiles' things. But the Sheriff had only shaken his head.

He needed Stiles things as a reminder.

Because he'd removed his wife from his life slowly after she died. And he'd realised, he had forgotten things about her. He forgot her favourite food, her favourite colour.

And he couldn't forgive himself if he forgot his son.

So he needed him here. Needed Stiles' smile on his bedside table.

Because he had to remember that he had done something good for this world. Remember that he had achieved something in this life, by bringing Stiles into the world. Brought such a wonderful, beautiful boy to this earth. Because Stiles had been a shining light, lost so easily in the dark of night.

And the Sheriff was forgetting what it was like to live bathed in that light.

 

 _The angel_ _s came and took you,_  
 _That really wasn't fair,_  
They took my one and only Son,  
My future life. My heir.

 

The Sheriff didn't believe in much.

He took it as he came. Rolling with the punches and believing what he needed to at the time.

But when Stiles died, he prayed to whatever entity there was that there was something else waiting for a Stiles. Praying that his son had reached a higher place.

A place where he didn't have to feel the bullet that pierced his heart. Where he didn't have to feel the agony of bleeding out internally, trying to fight for his own life. Didn't have to feel the painful realisation, in that moment of chilling clarity that God he was going to die.

That he didn't have to feel the pain of death. Because Stiles deserved heaven. He deserved no pain nor suffering...He deserved his mother.

And the Sheriff could only pray that Stiles got everything he deserved.

Because there was nothing more he could do for Stiles now.

So he prayed and prayed. Crying and begging.

Just so someone, somewhere....could finally do him right. Give him the love and the time he never got. Do what the Sheriff no longer could. What he never had time to achieve in Stiles' short life.

He just hoped that wherever Stiles may be....

...he just hoped that he was loved.

Because he'd deserved so much more than this.

 

 _If_ _only they had asked me,_  
 _If I would take your place,_  
I would have done so willingly,  
Leaving you this world to grace.

 

The Sheriff thought about dying a lot.

It had always been a major part of his life. With his occupation and his wife. So he'd always had a updated will. He'd been prepared, knew where he wanted to be buried.

But he never knew what Stiles had wanted.

Because of anyone was going to die...it never should have been him. He was the human. The one in the werewolf pack that wasn't even a werewolf. He was never suppose to die. At least not before the Sheriff. Because that wouldn't be unfair, wouldn't it?

But if he knew only one thing about his son. About the beautiful boy that left him so long ago.

...It was that he wanted to be free.

 

The Sheriff was ready. He was ready to let Stiles go. He knew he'd have to sometime.

But he's accepted the fact that Stiles was fading from memory.

Because he'd opened Stiles' door. Expecting the wave of pain and remembrance to strike him deeper into his heart than it did every morning.

But he only felt numb.

Because the bedroom didn't even smell like Stiles anymore.

 

 _You should have had so many years,_  
_To watch your life unfold,_  
 _And in the midst of this,  
Watch me, your Dad grow old!_

 

The Sheriff still felt the pain of Stiles' passing.

He felt it so strongly, like it had only happened yesterday. It was the first thing he woke up to, and the last thing on his mind as he fell asleep.

But the pain was the only thing left now.

 

Because Stiles was gone. He was gone a long time ago. The world had forgotten him.

And now the Sheriff was forgetting him too.

He didn't forget his face, his eyes or his smile. He could never forget those. But he was forgetting the small things. Just the little things that made up Stiles.

It had been a long time. His body and mind was begging him to forget while his pain hung on. He was old now. Old and grey and coming closer to his old friend everyday.

Coming closer to the friend that took Stiles away. But he was forgetting Stiles. And that was okay. Stiles was gone. He was gone. His baby boy was dead.

But Stiles wasn't free. Not yet.

The Sheriff stood on the highest point of Beacon Hills. The place where Stiles had sat on his jeep with Scott on the last night of summer before senior year...The year he'd never finished.

He stood, urn in his hand, looking over his town in the crescent moon. Stiles was ashes...But he'd never felt heavier. A weight the sheriff was willing to burden if it meant Stiles, somehow, could have this.

Stiles was beautiful. He was strong. He was amazing. He was smart. But he was dead. He'd died seven years ago.

And now the Sheriff was seven years closer to Stiles.

Because the only thing he really wanted, was to be with Stiles again. To be with his wife. Together, as a family, their laughter tinkling though all ends of time.

But first he had to let him go.

...Because Stiles needed to be free.

Somebody so young didn't deserved to be put in the ground. Didn't deserve for such young beautiful skin to rot.

He deserved to be set upon the wind. Traveling places he'd always wanted but never been able to go. And so maybe, on his travels though the wind and sky....

Maybe he might find what he was supposed to become in life. Maybe he might find peace. Maybe he might find the things he'd never had in life, and he could find them in death?

Because death couldn't restrict somebody to beautiful and powerful.

All he needed was to be let go. Let to sail on the wind, into the sky. He needed to be let go. Needed to go, so he could be found again.

Because the Sherrif would always find him.

And so the Sheriff let him go.

Let him float away in the soft wind, a whispered caress across the Sheriff's cheek, before going up into the sky, dispersing and flying. 

Soaring on the wind.

And the Sheriff smiled, feeling unfamiliar on his face.

....because now Stiles would finally be free.

 

 _I_ _hope your watching from above,_  
 _At the daily tasks I do,_  
And let there be no doubt at all,  
I really do love you.


	15. Werewolf Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness surrounded Stiles.
> 
> He scrambled out of his sheets, curling up in the corner so he could face the room. So he could be in the light. He curled his arms around his knees, staring out at the room.
> 
> Nothing moved.
> 
> The shadows clung to the walls, stayed on the walls and away from him.
> 
> But Stiles didn't trust it. The darkness lied.
> 
> It wasn't safe. It was okay one minute and then terrifying the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got Stydia coming right up next chappie. 
> 
> But we are at 50,00 words! Gasp! Thankyou all of you for reading and giving sugoest ions. I will be using some soon :)
> 
> Enjoy this.
> 
> It's really not happy.

There are things in life that you just don't expect.

Things that you never really thought about, or that should have been impossible. Things that catch you off guard, either good or bad.

And Stiles would have to say....that this is pretty bad.

Like, what the hell? He was in the woods sticking his nose where it shouldn't be, like always. Getting in the way and generally being nosy. It shouldn't have ended like this.

He didn't even know what happened. Well, he did. But it happened so fast he felt like it didn't actually happen. But it did happen. Because now he was left with a huge bite over the left side of his torso that hadn't been there before.

 

All he could remember was the sudden fear that rushed through him. The moment the forrest went from his usual stomping grounds to something dark and unfamiliar. And then all he could remember was the pain.

The sudden pain in his head from hitting the ground, something massive on top of him. And then there was the shooting pain from his side. The wet drool and sharp teeth, clamping over his side like it wanted to rip it from him.

And he remembered thinking he was going to die.

Just there on the dead leaves, for his dad to find in the morning.

But then it was gone. And Stiles was laying on the dead forrest leaves and shrubbery. Because that was a f*cking wolf. Bowled him over and tried to rip a chunk from him.

And there were no wolves in California.

He'd barely managed to sit up when Scott came barreling through the forrest, a police dog chasing him. Stiles felt like he was just waking up when a torch was shined in his face.

"Hang on Deputy, This delinquent belongs to me"

Hi, dad.

And then he was in a police car looking at Derek Hale in the backseat. The bite throbbed, and he was only vaguely concerned with rabies. This was much more juicer.

He could get the Scotts boss, Deaton something, to look him over later.

And Derek Hale was much more interesting then Veterinary clinics that somehow smelt too much of cancer and chemo...Two scents he just couldn't stand.

"You don't scare me." He told Mr Dark and Mysterious. The guys expression barely changed at his remark, but Stiles felt like he had already planned his death in seventeen different ways.

"Okay, maybe you do." He said, twisting around to get a better look at this 'criminal' in the backseat....And that was when he remembered that open flesh wounds hurt when you pulled on them.

"Ah..ouch." He hissed under his breath, looking down at where fresh blood blossomed against his shirt. At least the wolf had been kind enough to not get his blood on his hoodie. Cause then his dad would see it and ground him, for like, ever.

When he looked back at Derek the guy was glaring at him like he owed him money. Stiles was pretty sure he'd never seen this dude before, let alone owe him money. The dude had flaring nostrils and everything,

"What happened to you." Derek said, void of a question mark. Stiles got the feeling he didn't ask questions, only demanded answers.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Stiles said, wary of his dad outside. It didn't look like he was going to get anything from Derek here.

He was just about to get out of the car when something flashed over Derek's face. Something like understanding, and then guilt because he was understanding something. Guilt because he knew.

It was over within the second.

And then those eyes were staring into his, but without ill intent this time. It was strange, because those eyes were kind of nice when they weren't being mean.

"I'm sorry." He said quietly, eyes shut off from emotions now so Stiles couldn't decipher his statement or intent.

What was he apologising to him for? The murder of that girl?

But Stiles was getting the feeling that none of that really applied anymore. And that this just got a whole lot more personal than he'd ever thought possible.

"Ah, thanks?" Stiles said, looking outside to see his dad still talking. He was going to be finishing up soon. And Stiles had nothing left to gain here. He opened the car door slightly, ready to run.

"I hope you will forgive us someday." Derek said, still in that weird understanding-guilt-and-yet-not phase. His nostrils kept flaring like he was smelling something off.

"Okayyyy. This just got really weird." Stiles drawled, opening the door. "Bye Derek. I hope my dad releases you." Because he just got this weird gut feeling that Derek didn't kill that girl. Like somehow he just _knew_.

"Goodbye, bonum lupus."

Stiles left the car without looking at him again, because this guy was a whole knew brand of crazy. And Stiles had Matt Daheler in his class.

He scrambled to the edge of the tree-line where Scott welcomed him with a confused glance and they ran home together.

Stiles barely felt much more than an ache in his side.

And it should have worried him.

But it didn't until it was too late for worry to help him.

 

......

 

So here he was, laying in bed. Curled on his side, not able to understand why everything seemed so hot. His sheets felt scratchy on his skin and he felt too hot. Like there was itching power under his first layer of skin. Just out of reach, burning him up. His skin felt red raw, like Stiles had scratched an itch too hard. Everything throbbed.

He didn't understand.

He was just in his boxers, waistband pushed low so it wouldn't even touch the wound. Stiles had looked in the mirror. It was shallow, not even leaking blood.

It just felt hot.

His sheets were off within the minute. Just laying there in the early hours of Sunday morning, trying to figure out why everything felt like he was in an oven.

It was like he had a fever, but he was always hot and never cold.

He just didn't understand.

 

.....

 

Stiles' dad was out. Working his butt off to provide for them. He would be back by the time the sunlight touched Beacon Hills. And Stiles felt no ill feelings towards him. Stiles liked being alone. And, it usually let him go off exploring without his dad finding out.

He liked the silence. Liked the calm, where nothing moved and everything was just so...still.

But now, it was all too much.

The silence wasn't quiet. It was too loud. White noise rung in his ears, ricocheting through his brain. It was like everything was buzzing, and he couldn't make it stop.

Stiles curled beneath his sheets, a tiny little ball in the darkness. It was all too much. His forearms were clamped around his ears, willing the White noise to leave him alone.

But it still rung. Clear and loud, no matter just how tightly he squeezed his arms around his head. He squeezed his head, so hard it felt like it would explode.

And it still didn't go away.

He wanted to scream at it. Yell at it to leave him the hell alone. But the silence was too loud, so what would yelling sound like? Would it burst his eardrums and split through his brain?

He didn't want to know. He just wanted it to stop.

Why won't it stop?

 

......

 

The darkness surrounded Stiles.

He scrambled out of his sheets, curling up in the corner so he could face the room. So he could be in the light. He curled his arms around his knees, staring out at the room.

Nothing moved.

The shadows clung to the walls, stayed on the walls and away from him.

But Stiles didn't trust it. The darkness lied.

It wasn't safe. It was okay one minute and then terrifying the next.

Because the shadows only pretended to be shadows. They weren't actually. They were monsters. Demons. Tricksters. Ghosts. Freaking wolves that were not supposed to be in California.

His room was no longer his. His desk was no longer his.

It all belonged to the darkness.

Because it took. It stole. It lied. It wasn't safe. Stiles wasn't safe. It lied. It pretended to be nice. Pretended to be familiar. It wasn't.

It wasn't it wasn't it wasn't.

Stiles was sitting in the square of the full moon through his window. Only he was still him. Everything else wasn't. His bed wasn't. It lied.

It pretended to be warm and comforting. Pretended to be safe from the dark.

It wasn't.

It lied it lied it lied.

Stiles wasn't safe. Nothing was safe. Everyone was lying. The government lied. They said there was no wolves in California.

They _f*cking lied_.

The darkness wasn't his friend. He was the only thing left. The last solider. The darkness was coming for him.

Only the moon kept him alive.

But when the moon went away he would be nothing. He wasn't going to be here anymore. The darkness was going to take him. Going to take him away.

And he wasn't going to exist anymore.

 

.....

 

The next time Stiles woke, it was like waking up from a dream.

He sat up in bed. He dreamt of demons and wolves. Of shadows and darkness.

It was weird.

He looked over at his clock. Four AM. His dad would be home soon.

It was dark outside. The moon still bright. Stiles curled up, laying down with the covers up to his chin. He looked up at the moon, it's light shining in his eyes and setting a square of soft light over his curled body.

He fell asleep again under its watchful gaze.

_The wound in his side turning black beneath the covers._

 

......

 

Stiles couldn't breathe.

He shot up, eyes wide and body heaving. His first thought was a panic attack. But Stiles usually woke up before he was hit by something that reminded him of his mom.

So he shoved that from his mind, because he still couldn't breathe.

He didn't know what was going on. It was light in his room, but only slightly. The sun was going to rise soon.

He curled over, arms braced on the covers and legs folded beneath him. He felt something in his throat. Just like the rest of his body. Filled with something foreign.

He coughed, muscles in his back clenching and tensing as his body shook, rolling as he coughed and coughed, the sounds coming from his throat guttural and strange.

And for the second time that night, he felt like he was going to die.

He couldn't breathe, he _couldn't f*cking breathe_. His mom couldn't breathe when it was near the end. She couldn't breathe. Stiles couldn't breathe.

He was going to go just like her. He was going to heave and splutter, frail bones and sickly-

And then it felt like something was being pulled out of his throat. Like spaghetti that was stuck there and being choked out. His throat clenched, the rolling wave coming out suddenly and aggressively against his control.

Then he could breathe.

Stiles sat, curled and confused. He opened his eyes, afraid of what he might see. It felt like he'd hacked a hairball, and he wasn't inclined to see what it was.

He was kind of scared, too.

But he opened his eyes.

And it was like staring into the ocean at night. Black and like pure ink, spreading across his sheets. It was darker than anything he'd seen. Darker than night. Darker than anything that should exist on this earth.

If there was colour of death, this would be it.

But where did it come from? Why was it inside him? Why here, why now?

He just wanted it to stop. Wanted this whole night to end and for his dad to come home and hug him. Hell, even a scolding would be appreciated.

He just wanted his dad.

He'd tell him what to do. Tell him what was wrong. Because there was something wrong with him. And he didn't know what it was.

And that terrified him.

 

.....

 

Stiles curled as tight as he could. Like, that if he got small enough, this would all go away. His side felt like ice. Like his entire left side had been frozen.

He was so cold. So tired. He wanted it all to go away.

His back was pressed against his headboard and wall, close as possible to the corner. His sheets had been ripped from the bed, curled around him instead and cocooning him.

But he still felt like ice was eating away at him.

He didn't know what was happening. The cold ice scared him, but not as much the dark ink.

Not as much as the black ink that ran from his mouth and covered his sheets. A constant trickling stream of black tar. Covering himself and his sheets.

And he was terrified.

Terrified of what it meant. Of what was happening. Because there was something very wrong. Something very very wrong.

Because healthy people didn't choke up black tar.

And Stiles didn't understand.

He thought he knew a lot. Thought he was reasonably smart. Just he had no idea. He was left in the dark, swirling abyss of confusion.

Stiles was _f*cking_ terrified.

....because it felt like he was going to die.

 

.......

 

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Aching and searing. Burning and freezing. It hurt so much.

Stiles was screaming into his pillow, in his corner with his puddle of tar. Tar which was actually blood.

It stained his skin, running down his chin and body like rivers of death. He was tired. He was burning. He was freezing.

He wanted it to stop. He wanted to understand.

....he wanted his Mom.

Sometimes he thought he could see her. Floating in his vision as his illness took hold.

He wanted her _so bad_. To be here with him. To comfort him and tell him everything was going to be okay.

Because he was _so_ scared.

 

........

 

"Mom, I need you. Please-"

He was crying. Sobs that wrecked his frame and sent more black blood from his mouth. He stared out, begging and pleading.

"Help me....Help me _mommy_ "

She was there. Looking at him. Just looking. He stared up, begging for her to help him and to make it stop.

"Please? Mommy. Mommy-" he cried, spewing and sobbing.

She didn't answer him.

 

.....

 

It was too much. He didn't understand.

Why was this happening to him?

What did he do?

Why did he deserve this?

Was he dying? Was he dying here...now?

He didn't want to die.

He wanted his mom to make it okay.

He wanted to be safe.

He wanted to be loved.

....he didn't want to die.

He. Did. Not. Want. To. Die

He didn't know why this was happening. Why he felt so much pain.

"Mom?"

She was gone.

"Where did you go?"

She left him.

"Come back, mom."

He was all alone.

"Mommy?"

...She didn't answer him.

And she never would.

 

.......

 

Stiles had built a tolerance to the constant pain, but that only meant that it left room for the fresh pain to destroy him from the inside. He was in shock now, so it was just a cool clarity. But nothing was clear to Stiles. He didn't know what was wrong, or why this was happening to him.

"Mom?" Stiles asked again.

She still didn't reply.

He was alone. So frighteningly alone. Blankets around him like they could protect him, the wall at his back shielding him.

He stared out of his cocoon, eyes bright in the rising sun and black blood a sharp contrast to his pale skin.

"Mom?" He asked, voice quiet in the room. He needed her to answer, wherever she may be. She never answered before when he'd called out to her. But he needed her now more than ever. He needed her comfort, her warm assurance.

He was so pitiful.

Weak. Helpless. Delinquent. Nerd.

"Are you proud, mom?" He asked, sob in his voice as fresh pain surged again.

Could she?

Could she really be proud of what he'd become?

Could she love him?

"Please."

He felt weak, stupid. He was terrified. Going out of his mind.

"Don't leave me alone."

It hurt so bad. His heart and his body. He was left on his own to face the frightening storm. To face the fierce winds that cut through him and ripped just that little bit more from him.

" _Help me!_ " He screamed, for her, for him. For anyone.

His voice rung empty, echoing only to himself.

 

........

 

The wolf was there.

The darkness lied. Stiles knew it. It _lied_. It wasn't shadows. It wasn't space void of light.

It was the wolf. It watched him, mouth foaming and eyes glowing crimson. Stiles was frozen by the terror that coursed through his veins, limbs rigid like they'd disconnected from his brain.

Stiles' clenched his mouth shut, feeling the rising wave inside of him. His teeth clenched shut, both to stop the wave and to try not to whimper. To not show fear or weakness, despite his pitiful and broken appearance.

It didn't work.

He coughed pitifully as his body spit out more blood, oozing horribly from his mouth and down his body.

He knew what it wanted. He knew why it was here.

But he didn't want to go. It wasn't his time. He wasn't ready.

He wanted to go on more adventures with Scott. He wanted to kiss Lydia. He wanted to go to Poland to see where his mom grew up.

He wanted to grow. Wanted to discover.

He wanted to go to college. He wanted to live in a dorm with Scott and eat pizza and curly fries every day.

He wanted a family. Somebody to love him. He wanted kids, to whom he could be the second best dad ever. Because nobody could beat his dad. He was always going to be the best dad ever.

But now, The Sheriff wouldn't be able to be able to hold that title.

.....Because his only son was going to die.

 

"Please don't." He whimpered. The wolf only growled. Stiles fought back tears.

"I'm not ready yet." He pleaded, but the wolf took a step closer.

The fear inside Stiles suddenly surged. It became all he could feel, all he could think. The purest, most unadulterated form of fear there was, suddenly tearing through him so strong it felt like a hurricane.

He pressed his back hard against the wall, wailing pitifully from his curled ball as he kicked against his mattress, like he could run away from this.

He was sobbing and crying. Tears and blood running from his face and staining his skin and sheets.

"Don't take me away!" He cried, slamming his black splattered hands against the wall and trying to claw through it. His nails protested, fingers screamed. But he didn't stop. He needed to get away. He needed to live. He needed to survive. He couldn't die. He couldn't.

But but only left black stains smudged on the white paint.

The wolf stalked him like the prey he was. Cornered and easy for the taking.

"Please don't." He whimpered like a wounded animal, weak and helpless. Begging for his life.

Because this was it.

Stiles was dying.

And his body would be the only thing left to greet his dad when he came home.

"You can't" he tried. If not for him, for his _own_ life, at least for his dad. It was nothing but cruel to take this from John. Take the last of his family, take his child.

John didn't deserve to go through that hell twice.

But it kept moving closer.

"Please don't please don't please-."

His back was pressed painfully against the wall, curling into himself to fend away the monster. He couldn't do anything more than beg. Beg for his own life. Beg not to die this way.

All he could do was beg and hope that somebody out there would take pity on him and save him.

But nobody really liked him that much anyway. Most people would prefer it if Stiles died here, alone. With nothing other than the wolf that was the figurehead of all of his fears in the world.

....and it looked like they would get their wish.

The wolf crouched, ready to pounce.

Stiles heartbeat was fast, thundering in his own eardrums. His head ached, from trying to figure out why it had to go this way. His body throbbed, barely hanging on to life.

There was no reason for him to die.

He hadn't done anything wrong.

He was just curious. He just wanted to understand what was going on in his town. He didn't mean any harm.

He was only sixteen. He wanted to do so much more. He didn't want to die like this, void of everything he loved and with only the darkness to show him the way.

What had he done? What did he do to deserve this?

Why did it have to be him?

_Why?_

It looked so dark.

Why was it so dark?

The path ahead was so dark, stretching before him. There was no light. Empty and filled with nothing but the darkness.

He knew what lingered in the dark. He knew now. He knew not to trust it now. Knew it was filled with only the evil and dead.

He was scared. It was so dark. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to go towards that. Didn't want to go down that path. He didn't want this. There was nothing to help him through it. He would face the dark, bare and alone.

He felt it come closer without his consent, flowing out like a veil from the wolf and climbing up the walls like a shadow.

It was so dark. Too dark.

Why was it so dark?

It was everywhere. Running along the walls and stretching across the carpet like hands, reaching out to him from all sides.

The wolves red eyes glared at him from the dark.

Stiles cried harder, arms over his head and eyes buried into his knees. He didn't want to see. It didn't want to see what laid ahead. He didn't want this.

He felt the darkness brush against his skin, melding with the darkness that poured from him. It was inside him. The black tar and the darkness were one and the same.

It was inside him, it was all around him.

And then he was drowning.

He couldn't see, the darkness covering his eyes. He couldn't hear as it dived into his ears. He couldn't breathe, the darkness plunging down his throat and into his nose.

He was blind and deaf.

And he couldn't breathe.

Drowning in the dark. Consumed by the dark. All around him and inside him, squeezing him and eating away at him.

He didn't- he _couldn't_.

" _No!_ " He screamed, and the wolf leapt with the darkness. Plugging towards him all at once. He felt its mouth close around his throat, cutting off his last breath.

It was pain. _Terror_. Destroying and shattering and-

Then there was only darkness.

...And he was darkness too.

 

......

 

"Stiles?" John called, pulling his keys from the dorm and shutting it behind him. It was 6:30. Stiles should be getting ready for school, fumbling around the house and tripping over something in his half asleep state.

The house only greeted him with his own voice echoing off the walls.

He needed to talk to Stiles. This town had just gotten a whole lot more dangerous and he didn't want Stiles anywhere near that.

Last night had been close too. With Derek Hale wandering the woods, and John hated the thought of a murder suspect so close to his son.

But, after they'd gotten Derek he'd just gone incredibly somber. It had startled John, sparking his interest into watching the man for the majority of the night.

The man had just sat on his cot, elbows on his knees and eyes downcast. No yelling. No screaming. No demanding for a lawyer. He caught the man wincing every once in a while, looking like he was trying to bury his ears into his shoulders afterwards. No other movement nor sound was made in those dark hours.

But then, close to dawn, the man's eyes had suddenly snapped up. John watched him carefully as the man's eyes narrowed in on him, looking at the man for the first time.

And there had been so much pain there. So much pain and guilt that John had felt so ill equipped. Like this man knew things he could never fathom, and that he was surviving with the knowledge that threatened to buckle him.

That was when John decided there was no way this man had killed his sister. His only remaining family.

Derek's eyes never left him, watching him until the Sheriff turned away. He put his head in his hands then, hiding his face once again.

And it might just be John's old ears tricking him, but he swore he heard the man mutter:

" _Damn_ it." So forlorn, like he'd expected this. Whatever this was.

John had left a few minutes later, his shift coming to a close. He tried to ignore Derek's eyes in him as he left his sight.

And here he was, calling to a silent house. No bumbling son. But, it wouldn't have been the first time Stiles had slept in late.

 

"Son?" He called, dropping his keys on the table and moving up the stairs. He moved carefully, police instincts and the night with Derek Hale's weird behaviour setting him on edge. He passed through quietly, the first step of the stairs creaking.

He stopped.

He knew this. He knew this feeling. Of darkness and silence. His own home becoming so unfamiliar and alien.

...It had been like this the morning after his wife died.

And he'd climbed these very stairs, the silence threatening to buckle him. Because the silence meant that there was no life.

Only the darkness and shadows waiting for him.

The Sheriff looked to the side, where photos climbed along the wall beside the staircase, ascending with it. Photos of Stiles and Scott. Of Claudia. Smiling and laughing. Running in the sunshine, where no darkness could never reach them.

John ached for that life again.

He claimed the stairs carefully, pushing away the bad memories. He had a son. He still had a purpose here. He life could still be good. He had so many things to look forward to. To be there for both himself and for Claudia.

Stiles' first date. Giving him a smile and handing him his best jacket.

His graduation ceremony, standing in the bleachers as Stiles walked up to get his award. Clapping and whooping for joy because _that was his boy_.

Helping him pack for college. Putting him forward that first step on his own.

Stiles' wedding. To marry the person of his dreams and love them like the Sheriff had loved Claudia. So he could cheer and throw flowers so it could be just as amazing as his own wedding.

He had so much more in this life. He just had to let it. And his moping did nothing for anyone. It had been nine years. He needed to move on. And accept that he was going to live with that slight pang in his heart, at the thought of her for the rest of his life.

He ascended the stairs, feeling a new light in his heart. New day. New beginning. But first he needed some good old sleep...After Stiles, of course. Stiles came first now. Stiles would always come first.

Because he was the only thing John had left.

"You awake? It's Monday." He knocked on Stiles' door. Stiles didn't answer. John cracked open the door stepping in.

"You have school, you need-"

He stopped.

Black. Everywhere.

Splattered across the floors, crawling up the walls as though reaching out for something. Everything was stained. The walls, the desk, the window pane and the...

The bed.

His eyes settled on the bed. Where the black was most concentrated.

And there laid his son. Curled away from him, up against the wall. His skin covered by the blackness that ran across his naked back like thick vines, making him look so pale.

" _Stiles?_ " He choked, not understanding.

Because it was darkness. Darkness everywhere. Looking so ugly and foreign in the bright morning light.

He was next to Stiles then. Reaching out to him, to brush his shoulder. He was so cold, the early morning air chilling his naked skin so easily.

...but there was no goosebumps.

The Sheriff gently grasped his son in his shaking hand. He didn't know what was happening, and his brain was struggling to understand. John rolled him.

And then his brain stopped. Stopped wondering and trying to process what was happening right now. Because it didn't need to.

Because he knew a dead body when he saw one.

But it didn't make sense. That was what he saw on the street and in dark alleys. To drug dealers and unfortunate kids. Not in his son's bedroom. Not in his own home.

Not to his son.

Because things like this didn't happen. _Couldn't_ happen. Not when his home was supposed to be the place Stiles was safe.

He tried to think then. What was the last thing he'd said to his boy?

" _Go home, Stiles_."

Just go home. Go home. Be safe. Go somewhere where there wasn't a roaming murderer.

Go home so I don't have to lose you too.

And yet. Here he was. His baby boy. His boy that was just grazing sixteen.

Dead in his own bed.

The only place he was supposed to be safe. But Stiles hadn't been safe. He'd never been safe. Because John was supposed to protect him. From the murderers and criminals and _anything_. From sickness and from death....And whatever this was.

But he wasn't there.

He didn't know. Nothing could prepare him for this. But he would find out. He would find out what exactly took his son away from him. He would look for the rest of his life, until he breathed his last.

But for now...

Now he would just mourn his son.

...And the life he was never going to have.


	16. Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All they were, was a spark that lighted her memories every time she saw them. Something that reminded her of that night.
> 
> And Lydia didn't want to remember that night.
> 
> Because she had always found bodies. Found them everywhere, fill with the guilt that she didn't have enough power to save them.
> 
> But she never expected to find this body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STYDIA!!!
> 
> This chapter fought me so hard. 
> 
> I hope I served Lydia justice with her character.
> 
> Anyways~
> 
> Song: Safe and Sound By Taylor Swift. From the Hunger Games Soundtrack. Sad and eeriy if I say so myself.

Lydia laid on her bed.

She was curled up on her side, laying sideways in her bed. Her fiery red hair was spread out around her, spilling across the bed in shining curls. Her dresses was hitched up on her thighs, the flowing fabric spread out on the bed around her hips. Her suede high heeled boots still encompassed her feet, laying sideways on the bed along with the rest of her body.

She looked at her hand, holding it front of her face. Her perfect nails were barely a few inches from her face, her fingers curled slightly over her palm as she let the muscles rest. Her nails were painted red, the acrylic shining in the afternoon light that spilled in through her window next to her. She laid in the square of light on her soft pink duvet, the sunset casting shadows in the crinkles around her, her weight causing a indent in the feather stuffed duvet.

Her nails were perfect, just like the rest of her. Perfectly complementing the outfit she wore, the same shade as the colour on her lips. Her nails were perfect. They had to be.

Because everything about her was perfect. Her hair, her clothes, her grades, her social status. If something wasn't perfect, it would draw attention.

Attention she wanted to keep away from her hands.

Because her nails had to be perfect, to take away from the scars. To be so perfect in comparison that they would just fade into the background. That they would just disappear from mind, from her thoughts.

All they were, was a spark that lighted her memories every time she saw them. Something that reminded her of that night.

And she didn't want to remember that night.

 

Because she had always found bodies. Found them everywhere, fill with the guilt that she didn't have enough power to save them.

But she never expected to find this body.

 ...because they were _going_ to save him. Save him like they'd saved him so many times before, liked he'd saved them more times than that. Because she _wasn't_ going to find another body. She'd promised to herself that she would do anything, _anything_ to make her more powerful.

All she did was find the bodies.

And _God_ , all she'd wanted was just to save _one_ person. One, just so she could say that she didn't only find bodies. That she didn't only find death and destruction.

That she could do something other than be the bringer of death.

But she didn't even know he was gone. Didn't even know that he was missing. Because she'd been sleeping. They all had. And he should have been too. He should have been in bed, sleeping. Warm, comfortable and _safe_.

But was he wasn't. Because he'd been dragged from his bed in the middle on the night, dragged out into the cold and misty woods. He'd been in his soft and silky pyjamas, the light and warm fabric ripping and tearing into shreds on the forrest floor as he was dragged along, gagged and crying.

He'd been crying, the stones and buried twigs sticking up and scraping his skin as he was dragged along them. And he'd been taken into the middle of the woods, just on the border of the Hale property. Only a hundred meters from the Hale House.

...Only a hundred meters from where Derek slept in his bed, his dreams taking him away from the memories of his family burning alive.

And then his capturer made him scream.

 

Screams were the things Lydia was most familiar with. She could tell the amounts of anguish and feel the level of pain.

But she shouldn't have been able to hear it. Not when she was laying in bed, asleep. But she heard it like all the wolves did. Because screaming was _her_ thing.

A thing she had never wanted to hear from Stiles. Because she could feel the pain and terror through his cry like a lash to the face.

And it hurt her too.

Because she knew the sound of somebody that was about to die.

And she ran. In her silk nightgown and bare feet, racing though the woods as dirt and mud stained her bare skin and ruined her expensive pyjamas. She ran as fast as she could, tears drying against her cheeks because she knew she wouldn't be fast enough.

And there he was. Just laying there in the dirt, the same dirt that covered her feet and hands from falling and running.

She was at his side within the second, scrambling to her knees. He was staring up at the sky, whimpers escaping his throat as tears, dirt and blood covered him.

She shook horrendously, finding his wound and pressing down on it. She tried as hard as she could, but there would never be enough pressure. Because she was too small, too dainty. The fragile flower whom could only scream. She couldn't protect anyone, she couldn't save anyone.

Because his capturer had left him to die. In the dirt of the Hale land, his blood staining the earth along with the rest of their deceased pack.

She tried to ignore his cries of pain as she pressed down, curling over his body as though she could protect him.

But she couldn't.

She tried to scream. A purely human scream of anguish and pain. But the sound stuck in her throat, leaving her spluttering and crying like the mess she was.

She tried to think of something...anything. She had all this knowledge, where was it now? Where was it when she needed it the most?

She cried out in anger, Stiles' crying with her. From pain and the agony of a slow death. Of a stomach wound...bleeding out internally.

...Internally.

Lydia's eyes snapped open, her mind working a million miles per hour. Gears turning and thoughts whirling. Her blood was special, Deaton had said so. She could help him, surely? Her blood wasn't like a wolfs, but it was special.

So surely being special meant she could save her friends? That she could actually do something?

He needed her. And she needed him.

Or she would literally go out of her freaking mind. He had always said that he would.

But she knew insanity. She knew it would come for her, and never let her go. Her and instantly were joined at the hip. She had been fighting it so damn hard.

But she would be swallowed whole by the damage Stiles' death would leave behind.

So she had to save him. For them both. For the pack. Because Stiles was their human. Their brother, friend, confidant. He wasn't allowed to die.

He wasn't.

And Lydia couldn't let him.

She held a fist down into Stiles' wound, his blood coating her hand as she reached for a sharp object. Anything that would make her bleed.

She grabbed rock, shaking and struggling. She would have to let him go if she did this. She couldn't stop the external bleeding.

But this was his only chance.

She, as gently as possible, pulling her hand out from his wound. She winced as he cried out in pain, hands scratching at her hands to make it stop.

But this was his only chance. To survive. To live the life he damned deserved.

She had to at least give him that. After everything he had done for her.

Lydia grabbed the rock, bracing it against her wrist before slicing it, sharp and fast. He gritted her teeth as blood welled up from the wound. Holding her shaking wrist out over the throbbing wound, she tilted it slowly and watched as a single droplet of the red fluid fell, mixing with Stiles blood.

And then another. And another. "Please...please please please." She muttered like a mantra.

 

She watched. She waited. Stiles' eyes snapped open, shooting to look at her from his position on the ground, his eyes wide and frightened. She stared back, heart thumping and eyes hopeful.

And then suddenly he curled up facing away from her, throat working as to expel something. Lydia put a steading hand on his hip, leaning to see and to make sure he was okay.

The wound still gaped. Not getting better, not healing.

Lydia had barely a moment to understand, before Stiles scream broke the air.

She held her ears, curling over to brace her head on his hip. And he just kept screaming.

"Nononononono-" ran from her mouth, sobs overtaking her again. Because that sound wasn't simply pain. It was her scream coming from his mouth. It didn't work. She didn't do a single thing to help him. She wasn't sharing her powers.

...She was sharing her memories of death. Her nightmares of destruction and pain.

Lydia was sharing her pain rather than taking his away.

She grabbed him then, folding her body over his hip to hug his head to her chest, reaching out to him to muffle the screams.

As though her warmth would stop his pain.

He screamed for what felt like forever, a rising and falling wave that kept coming and coming. She didn't know what else to do.

And then she remembered that one time at a pack meeting. The one time she'd seen Stiles look so perfectly content. At peace.

How she wanted that peace back.

And she remembered finding it strange. Because they had been singing karaoke. Their voice muddling together with no finesse at all.

But she had been singing. Her voice wasn't like a singers, but it was still fragile and delicate. High and airy. And he'd looked at her with a small real smile on his face, head tilted with his for thanks people like them in his life.

And then she knew what to do.

Because she wasn't powerful. She couldn't save anyone. She couldn't save him. Not in the way she wanted to. Not in the way he deserved.

But she could still sooth him. Let him go with a that mellow peace, rather than this pain...In the only way she could.

Stiles was dying.

And she was useless to stop it. She needed to accept that.

She moved Stiles to rest back against her, her bare skin pale against the dirt and blood. Her legs curled beneath her and his head rested in her lap, as she had her hands twisted in his hair.

As though she could ground herself, keeping herself from going insane.

But it was futile in its entirety.

" _Just close your eyes_ " she began, raw and unpracticed but cutting through Stiles screams until they stopped. When his voice broke. He still strained against her, throat working as images flashed behind his eyes in a way she knew all too well.

" _You'll be alright_ " she sang. She certainly hoped her words were true.

Stiles never deserved to be hurt like this.

She felt the pack arrive, finally finding them through all the extreme scents of death and the disabling sound of Stiles' screams. She didn't stop though. But she felt them surround her and Stiles, all placing a hand on his body, soothing him far better than her voice could.

And then he wasn't in pain anymore.

Voices and images weren't in his head. He wasn't thinking all the things that haunted her.

There was no pain.

" _No one can hurt you now_ "

He stared up at her. Eyes watery with tears, spilling from his eyes. Her tears trailed down his cheeks. He smiled, mellow and at a twisted sort of peace.

She wondered if he even knew what was happening to him right now.

" _Come morning light_ "

He was fading fast.

Blood still flowing and his brain loosing function. But she still sang. Haunting and small. Waiting for the early morning to turn to light and take Stiles from her.

Waiting for the sun to take him away from the darkness of this night.

" _You_..." She tried, but her voice broke. She smiled sadly at Stiles, but he made no response. His eyes were blank, heartbeat slowing. Quiet and small. Her finger's joints locked onto his hair, holding onto him. So he wouldn't leave.

She tried again.

" _You and I'll...._ "

Her voice left her without her consent. Because her eyes saw the one thing she had _never_ wanted to see.

Stiles' life leaving him.

It was like a mist. Rising from him, glinting in the sun like diamond shards. It was horrible and terrible...

But it was also very beautiful.

At least Stiles could have them. At least he wasn't just going to be another body, leaving the world so fast and painfully. He got his last moments, with them. The people he loved. He was gone now. The wolves could no longer hear his heartbeat. And Lydia could no longer feel his soul.

But she still sang. Watching Stiles soul ascend above the treetops and float towards the sky.

He was safe now. Nobody else could hurt him. It hurt them, yes. It hurt like hell, and it would still hurt for many years. But now he was going to be _safe_. Safe and loved

It was horrible and terrible to have to go this way, at this point of his short life.

But at least there was somebody waiting for him.

...because he would have his mom now.

And that would be okay. Because she could love him in the way Lydia had never got the chance too. Love him in the way he _deserved_.

At least, after all of this hurt and pain that hadn't been justified at all.

...At least he would have this.

And so she sang. Sang loud and high in the somber quiet. Hoping that Stiles could still hear her. Hear her voice, so full of love, to light him on his path.

Letting him know that she would _always_ love him.

" _Be safe and sound_ "


	17. Diphtheria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott felt heavy.
> 
> The silence weighing on him. The absence of sound and of life driving him into the ground, slowly dragging him down into hell.
> 
> Stiles was never a weight he was supposed carry. Never could carry.
> 
> Because it hurt too much.
> 
> He just held Stiles, cradled him to his chest as he let the tears fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here again! Scott and Stiles 3
> 
> Still developing ideas that were given. Will be written and posted soon.
> 
> But I am going back to school tommorow. :(
> 
> Side note: Sorry Mexicans for the referral of where the illness came from. But there is slightly more reported cases in Mexico than USA. And I just needed a time for it to happen. Don't be offended. Mexico is a wonderful country, I'm sure.

Aphonia.

...You don't know what that means. Do you?

Scott didn't either. Had no need to.

But life had a habit of shoving things in his face that he had no idea how to deal with.

He doesn't know what his doing in life. Just going through as things are constantly thrown at him, latching onto him a weighing him down. And he had to deal with it before the next one came along. Because if he let them go, let things slide. He would buckle. Buckle under the weight and the pressure.

But he knew what it meant now.

Because he had to learn to stay afloat. To understand why everything was so alien. So quiet. Scott's life had never been this silent. So he had to know.

Because now it was.

Aphonia. Noun.

" _The inability to speak through disease of or damage to the larynx or mouth"_

Wikipedia knew everything. It had helped him so much before, with all the things that had been thrown at him.

But, just this once.

He didn't want to know.

He didn't want to know the one word behind all the pain and suffering. The word that summed up everything that was wrong. Summed up the silence.

Aphonia.

And the only reason why any of this happened was because the day they got their tetanus injections, Stiles hadn't been there.

He'd been at his moms side, holding her hand as she died.

A ironic coincidence which hadn't even meant anything. Wasn't even though about. Because it wasn't important. But Stiles never got it. It fell to the back of the sheriffs mind in the tsunami of grief that fell over them.

So when they went to Mexico, Stiles brought back the disease.

And now it was killing him.

 

.......

 

Diphtheria, it was called.

Caused by the bacterium _Corynebacterium diphtheriae_.

" _Complications may include myocarditis, inflammation of nerves, kidney problems, and bleeding problems due to low blood platelets. Myocarditis may result in an abnormal heart rate and inflammation of the nerves may result in paralysis"_

A bomb dropped on him, the words becoming sharp shrapnel that cut into him _so deep_.

And it had overtaken so quickly. He'd just been coughing. And then he was in the hospital three days later.

Dying.

There was previously only 57 known cases in America this year.

Now there was 58.

And they tried everything, nothing to help him. But the toxin inside the bacteria and poisoned him through his lymph nodes and tissues and blood.

He was gone.

He was completely aware though. And that was the scariest part. He was paralysed, neck locked still. Throat closing as the infection worsened, slowly crushing his windpipe. With wires and pipes sticking out from him at every angle.

But he was completely lucid.

Didn't even get the small reprieve that his mother had. Because she had no idea what was happening towards the end.

Stiles did.

And Scott could only sit in that damned plastic chair. Watching Stiles. Stiles watching him. People walking around them, blurs of fast movement as though they were in a time lapse. Only them staying still, the world moving along and leaving them both behind.

Just staring straight at each other.

And it was so _quiet_.

Scott hated the silence. Hated any place void of sound. That's one of the reasons why he and Stiles had blended so well.

Because a place filled with silence was a place without life.

Stiles was cut off. Couldn't talk...could barely _breathe_. He wasn't loud nor flailing. The things that made him, him, taken away.

But he still had his brain, as all else failed. His brain still worked, bursting with life. Questions that would now go unanswered.

Because he couldn't ask them.

 

.......

 

It was a whirlwind of surprise and pain. Scott was still in shock. He didn't quite believe that this was _it_. The last of Scott and Stiles.

The last of them.

The last of the laughter. The noise. The life.

This was it.

One laying still, paralysed by the toxins in his blood, dying slowly. The other sitting, paralysed by the pain of watching it happen.

What a pair.

But what did they expect? Stiles and he were each others missing halves. The thing that they didn't know they needed until they met. Two bodies, one soul.

Felt the same. Laughed the same. Cried the same.

But death got some sort of sick joy in ripping that apart. Tearing them down the middle, and taking one of them, dragging them into the dark void.

And Stiles couldn't even fight it.

He couldn't reach out. Couldn't scream as the darkness swallowed him. He could only lay limp, watching along with Scott as death came for him. Tears in his eyes, fear consuming him. Urging him to fight, to run.

But he could only lay there in that bed. Random objects plugged into him that were supposed to help, but only made him feel more trapped. Holding onto him as death came to take him, swooping down in a cloud of darkness.

And Scott could only watch as it took him away.

 

.......

 

His time was close.

Scott could feel it in the air. Hear it in Stiles' wheezing breath. In those eyes. Those beautiful eyes. Shining in the sunlight, filled with tears, because he knew too. Scott was holding his hand now, close as he was allowed. Stiles could feel his hand, the warmth. But he couldn't respond. It was okay, though.

Scott could talk enough for the both of them.

He spoke of everything. And of nothing at all. Words filled with passion, but void of everything else. Because he needed to say something. To keep his mouth and mind occupied on this.

Because otherwise he would be screaming.

Screaming for something to save him. Anything supernatural in this damn world. Because wolves couldn't. Not with him poisoned like this. But...the bestiary was filled with creatures. One of which could help.

He and Lydia found it in those first terrifying hours. Scared and confused about how this had happened so fast.

But the elation was there. Breaking through the terror of Stiles deteriorating so quickly. They studied it hard, how it's saliva's qualities could reverse toxins effects and reduce it to nothing.

....But then they found out that it had become extinct one hundred years ago.

 

And that was the final blow. He was just cold and numb.

Sitting in the silence that even his words failed to fill.

 

........

 

Scott wanted to hear his voice.

To hear him say _something_.

He wanted something to remember Stiles by. Something that wasn't terrified eyes and a fast heart beat. He just wanted Stiles.

Wanted him safe. Wanted him home.

Because it was his fault they went to Mexico. They went to save him.

And they did.

But now he couldn't save Stiles.

He tried to apologise. And Stiles tried to answer. But his eyes were already filled with everything he wanted to say, and Scott couldn't look past that. It blocked off his eyes, and Scott wasn't smart enough to figure it out,

So he'd never really know if Stiles forgave him.

 

.........

 

Scott knew Stiles.

Could read him so well. Feel his feelings, his emotions. Pick him apart and put him back together.

But he felt separated. The barrier of death between them, even as close as they were. He felt distanced. Stiles was far away.

He was already too far away.

He couldn't feel him anymore. His eyes were their only tether. Keeping them connected as everything else left them.

They were both on the bed, chests and thighs pressed against each other in a attempt to _feel_ Stiles again. Get as close to Stiles as he could, because he was already too far out of reach.

Already leaving him.

He wasn't allowed to be on this bed with Stiles. But he didn't give a shit. He didn't care about anything else then getting close to Stiles again.

Because without him he felt so empty.

Because he was loosing the thing he never knew he needed. Never knew he was missing until he met Stiles.

He was scared to feel that. Scared to feel that again.

Because before he didn't know he needed it. Didn't even know it was there. But, after he'd had it....he would never not feel it's absence. _Stiles_ ' absence. Pressed against his own soul, melding to him and becoming his other self.

Missing the others presence that was made to be next to him.

In the seat next to him at school. The beanbag in front of the Xbox. The spot next to him on the bed they shared in the dark days.

Like now. Pressed close just so Stiles wouldn't go away.

Wouldn't leave him to face the world alone.

He looked into Stiles eyes, bare inches from each other. He ignored the tubes coming out of his nose and the tape keeping them there, on his cheeks. He just stared into his eyes. From here he could see the beautiful colour of them. The life and feelings and thoughts within them. Filled to brim.

And he wondered how long it would be until they became empty.

 

.....

 

Stiles stared at him, eyes filled with thousands of words he couldn't speak...But he didn't need to. It was okay. He didn't need to, not to Scott. Not to his best friend, his _other half._

He always knew.

And there was nothing left to say.

 

.....

 

Scott felt heavy.

The silence weighing on him. The absence of sound and of life driving him into the ground, slowly dragging him down into hell.

Stiles was never a weight he was supposed carry. Never could carry.

Because it hurt too much.

He just held Stiles, cradled him to his chest as he let the tears fall.

 Scott watched as the day drew to a close, the soft orange light of the setting sun steaming into the room, reflecting off his blood shot and tear filled eyes. The light even managed to bounce off Stiles' eyes, making the dark brown gleam like it used to.

Because they were empty now.

He sighed bitterly, broken by the tears and sharp breaths of grief. Even after such as beautiful and pure life ended, the world continued on. The people walked along the street, unaware of what had taken place.

The sun was setting like any other day, the stars where coming out as they did every night. The world continued. It didn't seem to matter that Stiles Stilinski was no longer within it. That his bright soul was gone.

He looked down at the body of Stiles, still cradled in his arms. His eyes where closed as his upturned head lay against Scott's chest, face up towards his best friend.

He looked like he was sleeping. But Scott knew better. Even without his memories of what had occurred earlier, he still would have been able to see that Stiles was dead.

For a boy so energetic, he would never of been this still.

For a boy always moving, he would never of been this cold.

For a boy so fit, his heart should of been racing.

 

But it wasn't. The room was quiet, unfit of a boy so loud and wonderful.

Two bodies.

But only one beating heart.


	18. Kate Argent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't fair to discriminate somebody on what they were born as. Derek couldn't not be a wolf. He couldn't make that decision, so they shouldn't be able to make the decision to hunt him either.
> 
> And Derek was good. Moody and growly...but good. He had a good heart, one that had been tainted so darkly. But good. Still good.
> 
> He was a good person. He didn't deserve to be hunted. Didn't deserve to be killed.
> 
> Because it wasn't really hunting. He wasn't an animal. He was a living, breathing person. Not human, but a person all the same. So it wasn't hunting.
> 
> It was murder.
> 
> And murder could never be justified.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this! Another update :)
> 
> This was floating in my head and unfinished on the page for ages. I finally ended it, unexpectedly to my surprise. Kate wasn't even apart of it originally. 
> 
> Oh well. The mind goes where it wants.
> 
> I started school again today *cries* yay tests and assignments. Physics is destroying me I swear.
> 
> Enjoy :)

"Why is the moon so lonely?"

"Because she used to have a lover. His name was Kuekuatsu and they lived in the spirit world together. And every night, they would wander the skies together. But, one of the other spirits was jealous."

"Trickster wanted the Moon for himself. So he told Kuekuatsu that the Moon had asked for flowers; he told him to come to our world and pick her some wild roses. But Kuekuatsu didn't know that once you leave the spirit world, you can never go back."

"And every night, he looks up in the sky and sees the Moon and howls her name. But... he can never touch her again."

" _Damn_ girl" Stiles blurted out, interrupting the serene silence that had fallen after Lydia stopped talking. "That's some sad shit right there."

"Shut up Stiles, you're running the mood."

"Oh, _sorrrrry_. I didn't know we were having a sad sesh, I would have brought my tissues."

"Just be quiet and listen." Derek voiced from the other side of the fire.

But contrary to popular belief, Stiles had the full capacity to shut up. It was one of his anxiety techniques, just to let yourself and your problems fade into the background as you let the world around you come into focus.

And so he did. He listened to the crackle of the fire, the night birds calls in the distance. He looked up at the stars, the moon casting its bright light down on all of them.

Stiles was proud of himself for coming up with this idea. He counted it as one of his best. Because this was his idea. His idea to go on a little weekend retreat, away from it all for just a moment.

Away from school and wolves and homework. Just to relax, to revive them.

And it was awesome.

They only just arrived into one of Jackson's cottages in the Forrest, about a mile out of Beacon Hills. It was nice and warm this time of year, and they planned on filling this weekend with swimming and eating and laughing.

A few of Stiles favourite things, with some of his favourite people.

The whole pack had made it, which surprised Stiles. He thought most of them would ditch seeing as it was Stiles' idea and left just him and Scott.

But, Stiles had a feeling Derek had been rather convincing in getting them to come.

But Stiles wouldn't thank Derek. Because that was how they worked. They did nice things for each other but would never acknowledge them. They'd just pretend that they ignored each otherwise.

It was a nice relationship, and Stiles was proud of what they had achieved. Seeing as they hated each other when they first met.

Yay for improvement.

"Alright." Stiles said, standing and brushing his bum. Everyone was going into the familiar couple mode, eyes only for each other. Derek was staring into the fire, and Stiles wondered absently if he could see his family in the flames.

He shook his head.

"I'll be back in a second." He said, and Scott nodded absently as he cuddled with Allison. Stiles shook his head fondly, throwing his hands up into the air.

He didn't know why he bothered.

It wasn't like it mattered anyway. He'd be back before Scott even noticed he was gone.

 

Stiles began trekking his way through the shallow snow. It was freaking cold away from the fire, but the silence was welcoming. He just needed a moment, to collect his thoughts as it would.

The murmur of voices faded along with the light of the fire, but Stiles kept walking. Down his pure white path, the moon through the canopy giving enough light to see by.

 

His mind ran too fast sometimes. So it was nice to just take a breather.

Stiles did this often. Went off by himself. Sometimes it was just soaking alone in his bath for a few hours. Other times it was visiting his moms grave spontaneously, not saying anything. Just sitting next to her and trying to feel her presence to guide his thoughts.

It was nice to be alone with only the silence, sometimes. To only be able to hear his breaths and his heartbeat.

He didn't know how the wolves did it. It was never quiet for them. There was always a bug buzzing or leaves moving in the breeze. They never knew silence. It was gone the moment they were changed.

Except Derek.

He'd never known the silence. He was born this way.

Never known what it was like for everything to be quiet. No sounds. No buzzing of insects. No beating of hearts.

He was born the way he was. And that was why Stiles thought it so wrong that he had been hunted because of it.

It wasn't fair to discriminate somebody on what they were born as. Derek couldn't not be a wolf. He couldn't make that decision, so they shouldn't be able to make the decision to hunt him either.

And Derek was good. Moody and growly...but _good_. He had a good heart, one that had been tainted so darkly. But good. Still good.

He was a good person. He didn't deserve to be hunted. Didn't deserve to be _killed_.

Because it wasn't really hunting. He wasn't an animal. He was a living, breathing person. Not human, but a person all the same. So it wasn't hunting.

It was murder.

And murder could never be justified.

Not by the pretty words of hunting, or family legacy, or a sense of duty. There was no reason for them to try and kill Werewolves.

It was all just stories. Old fears and fairytales. They weren't demons. Weren't _disgraced_.

Why did they expect? Scott got bitten one night, and suddenly the boy became a monster? They expected Stiles to just dismiss all the years of friendship, the years of their life together...for an old folk tale?

In no world would that _ever happen_.

Scott was good. Derek was good. There were bad people out there. That did the wrong things with this power, with the power of a werewolf.

But they couldn't just run around killing people based on _stereotypes_.

In no way could that ever be justified. Not to anyone that knew the truth. Because Stiles knew. They didn't get into his head. Didn't let them play with his fear and mould it into something they wanted.

He would never betray his pack.

Yeah. He's human. Screw you. He can be friends with Werewolves. They are normal people. With jobs and lives. They just turn furry every full moon, and a little stronger than normal. They are people. Good people.

And his dad always said he needed to find more friends. To blend in more, socialise more.

Well, now he was a pack of werewolves as friends. A pack of good people, that were much more than just wolves. They laughed, they cried. They felt pain and longing. The sun on their face and the rain in their skin.

They also felt what it was like to watch their whole family burn. Felt what it was like when everyone they loved was killed. Felt the pain...the agony of loss.

And Stiles was familiar with loss.

But at least he didn't have a bitch dancing on his moms grave, because apparently she wasn't a person, and didn't deserve the respect of one.

Not like Derek did.

It made Stiles sick, sick to his stomach.

Because loosing somebody you loved was hard enough. But, when somebody murdered them...He didn't know what they must feel like. To know that somebody, somewhere...did this on purpose.

Caused all this pain, this _agony_....

For **_sport?_**

Stiles shook his head. Feeling anger and loss searing though him all at once. He needed to chill. Life sucked. Yeah. He already knew that.

There wasn't anything he could do but protect them. Anger didn't help anyone. Derek was a prime example.

Because it was destroying him inside.

Stiles hoped he was healing. Hoped he was finding a better way to keep it all in and to keep control. Because it was just going to eat away at him until there was nothing left.

But, for now. He could stand here. And admire the silence.

The untouched snow. The ice glistening on the bare trees. The moon shining down on him. Peaceful. Untouched. Left alone, beautiful in its simplicity. In its natural state.

Like the werewolves.

They could be so beautiful and wonderful if they just been left alone. Left alone to live in peace. They could use their capabilities. They could help people, unafraid of the consequences. They should be allowed to help people. To develop a way to administer that amazing pain relief, to help people in chronic pain. Or to find a way to use their healing abilities as medicine for the terminally ill or injured.

But instead they were sitting in houses, chaining themselves back at the moons call. Afraid of what could come for them should they let themselves go.

They could be so wonderful. Amazing and fully using their abilities to do good.

But the fear was consuming, overtaking. Because people would hurt them. People that did not care if they had families and lives to live. Judging them on the things that made them different. Changing them and moulding them in their heads into mindless monsters that could do no good.

It was the same as the Caucasians to the African Americans.

Saying they had some sort of deformity in the the bones of their skull that made the Caucasians better than them.

It was so stupid.

Just because they were different didn't make it bad. Their differences where what made them amazing. The shouldn't be discriminated for something they couldn't change, nor help.

And they weren't even doing anything bad. They were just trying to live life. Help people where they could.

And it was just so sad that they were hardly allowed to do that.

If Werwolves had been known to America, it would be just the same as the 1950's. Discrimination and segregation. Put down for things that were all just assumptions and stereotypes. Made up into something in people's minds that didn't even exist, a whirlwind of lies and wild guesses.

Stiles hoped one day that might change. But first the fear would have to be out behind the human race in order to look forwards.

But fear was a hard thing to look past.

It was a basis of nature. Good for self preservation. But could be twisted by words and lies. Irrational fear.

And Stiles wanted to live in a world where that didn't exist.

Because what it came down to was _lies_.

So many lies. Told to make people feel fear. To change their perspective, mould them into putty. Lies where the worst thing invented, simply because of what they lead to.

Sometimes it was just mistakes, a mush up of a sentence that spiralled out of control. But other times, it was on purpose. Told with a sly smile as they waited to watch everything fall apart.

Like Kate.

The bitch. 

She lied. Derek was moulded to her putty by her words. She broke him apart and filled him up with lies. And then she murdered everything he loved.

Stiles was so glad she was gone, so she couldn't hurt anyone else.

Because murder was the worst crime somebody could commit.

Not tax fraud, like the punishments seemed to say. Because yeah. People were punished harder for tax fraud than for _ending_ a human life.

And humans lives should be the most treasured thing on this earth.

Stiles couldn't imagine it. What would go through somebodies mind that urged them to end something that had so much potential. Could live, change and grow. Because his mom had been _taken_. Not murdered. And that still hurt like hell.

But there was nothing that could be blamed for that. Nothing that caused it that would have never happened. It wasn't like somebody decided to take her away.

And it must hurt so much to know. To live the rest of your days...knowing that they would still be here if that one single person hadn't decided to take them away. He didn't think he could ever know how much that would hurt.

But he didn't want to know.

 

Stiles bit his lip. Turning his head instead to the sky and away from his thoughts. Feeling the cold air cool the burning fire of emotion inside his soul.

Because while quiet time was good for his anxiety, it also opened his mind to the things he shoved deep.

But that was okay.

Everything needed to be addressed one day. One day Stiles would address his mom's death in the fullest. But that day wasn't today.

And it would be a long time away, because in order to do that. He had to not cry at the thought of her leaving him. He had to be able to shut off the sound of her dying breaths, or the way her hand went limp in his.

Stiles smiled at the moon...Because otherwise he'd cry.

It was still too painful. The worst pain he'd felt.

...but what came next came a close second.

 

Because suddenly he wasn't alone. There was an arm snaking around his chest and a sharp pain his his neck.

And Stiles felt everything _snap_.

Thoughts gone. Emotions coming to a screeching halt. Mind blank and confusion. So much confusion. Because wouldn't he have heard the-

 _Then_ there was pain.

He couldn't even tell where it came from. Because suddenly it was there, consuming his whole body. When he came back, he was resting on the snow. Laying down on the pure white.

That wasn't white anymore.

Stained. Impure. See, he was right. Let nature do what it was made to. It was better to leave it alone. Or you destroyed it.

And the snow would never be white again.

He was resting weakly on the snow, staring out to the side. Broken and twisted, laying limp and heavy. His eyes were blank, all brain power going into the thought that _oh my god his throat was spilling blood all over the snow._

 

He was dying.

 

God. _God. No._. Not here. Not now. Not on the holiday where everything was supposed to be safe. Where they were supposed to be having fun.

He couldn't die here.

It would break his dad's heart.

He couldn't let it. He couldn't just _die_. So he struggled. He tried to sit up, limbs jerking and spasming from the effort he simply didn't have the capacity for within his quickly dying body.

But then there was a hand slamming him back down into the snow.

And he was too far away. The wolves couldn't hear his heartbeat unless they were looking for it. They _couldn't_ -

"So you're the human pet?"

Stiles was blank again. Staring up at the face, brain muddled and confused and pain and _oh my god._

Her sickening smile was evidence enough.

" _Kate_." He hissed. Spittle coloured red, leaking down his chin. She smiled as his chest heaved, shaking from the pain and choking on the blood.

And he could barely breathe.

She laughed. Teasing and light. Airy like and angel but he _knew_ she was the devil. She couldn't fool him. So at least he'd die knowing that cold hard fact. One many others hadon't as they left the earth, unaware as she burned them.

 

But, they would know now. What it was like to watch somebody die....To see their body because they'd been murdered.

And that just wasn't fair.

They didn't deserve that. Didn't deserve to find his body. They didn't deserve to have to take his body home to his dad. To bury him next to his mom. They didn't deserve to feel the pain of knowing. The pain of knowing that somebody did this on purpose. That _Kate_ did this.

That Stiles had been murdered. It wasn't fair. They were people. They would feel this. The agony of _knowing_.

And that just wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair at all.

And Stiles felt life ebbing out of his fingers and toes, leaving him cold and broken. But he knew it didn't matter. _It didn't matter at all._

...because Scott going to kill Kate for doing this to him.

Did 

"Humans should never be allied with those dogs." She said as though she felt need to explain the reason why he was dying, but he already knew. Her words didn't mean anything to him. Because he _knew_.

She was a bitch that loved to kill the people her victims loved.

Because it wasn't the physical pain she enjoyed. It was the emotional. The effect of the death of a loved one. She would laugh as you cried, as you mourned.

And then she'd kill you too.

"They aren't the dogs here, bitch." He smiled. Like he wasn't in unbearable pain because of her. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

She had her gun out, point blank at his forehead. The world was fading. And he was clinging to the edge. Thoughts falling apart. But the gun was about to go off in a second. And the wolves would hear it.

And then he would be gone.

But he'd be saved. And the balance would be restored back those world. Because Kate would finally feel the pain she had inflicted on others.

And then everything would be okay again.

Because they'd get the justice they deserved. For living in fear. For watching families burn and lives turn into nothing.

It was going to be okay.

Because Stiles would be avenged. Along with Erica. Boyd. Laura. Talia. Andrew. Emma. Stephanie. Robert. Anna. Melanie. Rachel...And _countless_ others.

They would be _avenged._

Stiles was grinning. Blood and teeth shining. Kate stood over him, Staring him down over the barrel of his morality. "Burn in hell, filth" She smiled sweetly then, like she wasn't spitting words of poison. The safety clicked ominously, as though to scare him. But he _knew her type_. And she wouldn't get the satisfaction. Not from him. Not this time.

Because he would be the last life she took.

...His pack would make sure of that.

 

"I'll see you there!" He grinned, maniacal. Body heaving and throat spilling blood so very dark.

Then it went off. Sharp sound and then echoing silence. Splatter of blood on the snow. The moon shining bright. An answering howl echoing through the air....And Stiles was gone.

But it was okay.

Because the wolves were coming to take him home.


	19. Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His dreams had never been anything close to pleasant since the fire. But now, he simply didn't dream.
> 
> Because he couldn't dream if he couldn't sleep.
> 
> But that didn't mean that he couldn't still hear the voices. Or one voice specifically.
> 
> And at night, he had less of a defence. He didn't have enough of a brain to block them out. So they terrorised him. They plagued his every thought, every move. All around him. Caressing his face, whispering in his ear...
> 
> He wished the boy would just leave him alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another sad chapter on my favourite platonic heterosexual mates. You're welcome?
> 
> Inspired by my fic from another fandom. On another site.
> 
> Italicised song by Evanescence
> 
> :)

_I'm so tired of being here_  
_Suppressed by all my childish fears_

Derek sighed. The pack meeting had gone late into the night, leaving him to clean up in the dark of night. Alone. He didn't complain much though. These days, he preferred to be alone.

When the rest of the pack left, he didn't miss the watching gaze of Lydia trained on him. He knew Lydia was worried about him. Hell, he was worried about himself.

But the difference was that he didn't care.

He didn't care about himself anymore. He would just drink, and drink and drink. Just let all his sorrows drown in hard, wolfsbane liquor. He knew that one day he would have to face his grief, that he would have to think of the reason he was doing this to himself in the first place.

But not now. Maybe later.

But then again, it was always later.

The kid _had_ called him the ultimate procrastinator

 

_And if you had to leave  
I wish that you would just leave_

His inner demons were very carefully hidden. He was a man of many, and over the years...he learned where to put them. He had imagined it to be like a drawer of subconscious. He would put everything inside. Grief, pain, demons and sorrow. Just throw it all in. Slam it shut. Lock it away. Bury it deep.

It was one of the many drawers he had, but it was the one he never opened.

But, at times like these...it seemed so close to the surface. That it was struggling to open, to let everything flow at him like a tidal wave. Wiping him out and destroying the persona he had carefully crafted.

Yes, Kate Argent was one of his major regrets.

And then there was the kid. He was his biggest regret. Because he let him in. Let him into the life that wouldn't only take him in the end.

If only he knew. If he'd just _thought_. But hindsight was a bitch. A bitch he'd lived with his entire life. Plaguing his mind since the night his family had _burned_.

But usually, by this stage of depressive thinking- he would already have a bottle of something mind numbing on hand, destroying his brain cells and making it all go back under again.

But Lydia had hidden the good stuff. The stuff that _worked_.

She thought she was doing him good by limiting his use. That he could think clearly and come to terms with his demons. But that was the opposite of helping.

He didn't want to become aware of the world around him. He didn't want to let himself think about his demons. All he wanted was to forget.

But he couldn't forget.

 

' _Cause your presence still lingers here  
And it won't leave me alone_

 

It was always in the corner of his brain. Whispering sweet nothings and tempting him with its depths of undiscovered pain. He had always been too curious. But, to be fair... Anyone would want to know every part of themselves.

But Derek's logical side always won over. He knew never to open that drawer. It was locked for a reason.

And he knew he really didn't want to see what was inside.

But, it was still there. It was all still there. Sometimes it felt like there was no barrier, that it was pushing at the surface, barely kept back.

Like the presence within his mind was whispering in his ear. That he was forever following him, never leaving him alone.

But sometimes. Sometimes, it was utter bliss. Sometimes there was no presence beside him, sometimes there was no whispers or taunts. Sometimes there was nothing to haunt him.

And that was usually when he was drunk.

 

_These wounds won't seem to heal  
This pain is just too real_

 

But then there was the pain.

Most days, there wasn't much. It was mostly just the presence following him. But some days, some really bad days....

There was pain.

The best way it could be described was like a deep ache. Like an ache in his chest that came from the inside. It was strange, since most pain came from the outside. Weapons, words...all from the outside, trying to get in.

But this was different. It was like the pain was coming from his heart.

And it felt much worse than anything from the outside could hit him with.

But those days were the days he let himself get too close to that drawer. And, with no alcoholic barrier....that shit  _hurt._

But most days he had enough time to find that trusty bottle of liquor. To have enough inside him to build up that level of ignorance.

To make sure he wouldn't remember that battle.

 

_There's just too much that time cannot erase_

 

He knew that it had been a long time since then. Many weeks, a couple months. He didn't exactly count the days. There wasn't a whole lot of that day that he wanted to remember.

But he knew it had been a relatively bad day from the start. With all those whispers amongst them, of the approaching battle. He had known that he had to make a stand. His authority had been overridden by the fear. Their pack had no structure.

And besides, he couldn't be undermined by the boy.

He wished he could go back. Wind back time to that single moment. Where his attention had been diverted, and he hadn't being paying attention. We're he had been the classic dick, snapping his jaws at his allies, _his friends,_ instead of watching the enemy. So he could _stop it._

Stop it from happening in the first place.

...So he could stop it replaying in his head.

 

 _When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears_  
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears  
And I held your hand through all of these years  
But you still have all of me

 

Life of the supernatural rarely had highlights. It was all just a bunch of okay home days and horrible days out. Where he was watched by all, looking the classic trouble maker. He'd barely gone out a lot because of it. But Derek did his part when he had too.

He rarely went out.

Except when the brat came.

Derek's relatively mundane life was changed and his judgement on his days were ripped to pieces. When the boy was around, no day could be the same. If Derek had decided that his day was going to be good, the brat would always find a way to change it.

He had been good like that.

 

_You used to captivate me by your resonating light  
Now I'm bound by the life you left behind_

 

He knew that he would never forget what happened that day. But he also had enough of a stubborn will to never think of it.

But still...he knew it would never go away until he did.

And when that day came, there would be tears. Finally. Only when those tears fell would Derek be able to properly heal.

But he never wanted it to happen. He was quite happy to live the rest of his life this way. He didn't care if he wasted away and died.

It would be what he deserved anyway.

 

_Your face—it haunts my once pleasant dreams  
Your voice—it chased away all the sanity in me_

 

His dreams had never been anything close to pleasant since the fire. But now, he simply didn't dream.

Because he couldn't dream if he couldn't sleep.

But that didn't mean that he couldn't still hear the voices. Or one voice specifically.

And at night, he had less of a defence. He didn't have enough of a brain to block them out. So they terrorised him. They plagued his every thought, every move. All around him. Caressing his face, whispering in his ear...

He wished the boy would just leave him alone.

 

 _These wounds don't seem to heal_  
This pain is just too real  
There's just too much that time cannot erase

 

He knew that dreams would haunt him. He knew they would never stop. But he also knew that he would never be ready to let them out. Let them all flush out of him, and destroying the defence he had so carefully constructed.

He would never be ready for that.

Because it meant he would have to open that draw.

 

 _When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears_  
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears  
And I held your hand through all of these years  
But you still have all of me

 

He knew the years he had with the boy, with the pack, in his life would be his best. He knew no one else could change him like that boy did. He knew nobody else would ever manage him, knowing when to stand up to him as well as when it shut up.

He also knew he would never marry.

Not only because no human on this planet could accept him and love him at the same time, because he was born as something else. Something, that at times. He just didn't want to be.

Because of this power. This strength, reflexes....so many had died. It wasn't worth it. This power wasn't worth more than life. He wished he didn't have it in the first place, because it brought so much pain.

And yet he couldn't change it.

But it wasn't all because of that, it was because of what came with marriage.

It meant a life with somebody else. His other half. But he had given up on find his special somebody a long time ago. He was just too damaged. Even if he wasn't...nobody could want this. Want him. And, besides, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it anyway.

Because with marriage came children.

....and his record hadn't been all that good.

 

 _I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone_  
But though you're still with me  
I've been alone all along

 

He knew he would never look at a child another way. Never not see apart of him in every boy. See his mannerisms, his attitude, his aura, his habits. Saw it the day the pack graduated. The sea of brown haired boys, steeping up on the podium. He saw the boy in them that day, and the ache had been so _deep_ within him that he felt like he couldn't breathe.

And he already had enough of the brat to haunt him.

He didn't need to see it everyday too.

 

 _When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears_  
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears  
And I held your hand through all of these years

 

 

In his life, Derek had become aquatinted with fire.  

It was the main feature of his life. Burning in the back of his mind _constantly_  

But he knew he would never forget that one singular spark. That one burst of light, which had been no different than the others.

But had destroyed him so completely.

He knew he would never forget the _snap_ of it coming to life. He knew he would never forget the sound of his flames roaring and consuming the oxygen in the air like a ravenous beast. He knew he would never forget the keening screams of agony. He knew he would never forget the smell of hair and tanned flesh burning.

He knew he would never forget the _betrayal_ in those eyes before they burned up in flames.

.

Because, he knew he would _never_ _forget_ the moment he watched Stiles _**burn**_.

 

_But you still have all of me  
...me._


	20. Scott McCall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somebody, somewhere...always got left behind.
> 
> Not everyone could always keep up with the group. Could always be moving on the same wavelength or at the same speed. Somewhere, somebody had to stay behind.
> 
> And his would not be the first time they would have to leave Stiles behind.
> 
> ....But it would be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 60,000 words!!! Wow
> 
> For Titania13 and Runawaydreamer, for Scott+Stiles feels
> 
> You're welcome

Somebody, somewhere...always got left behind.

Not everyone could always keep up with the group. Could always be moving on the same wavelength or at the same speed. Somewhere, somebody had to stay behind.

And his would not be the first time they would have to leave Stiles behind.

....But it would be the last.

 

......

 

Scott breathed out harshly, hiccuping slightly in his desperation.

But he wasn't sobbing. He wasn't.

He gripped his load again, shifting his weight as he took off running. But he only got a meter before he went crashing to the floor. His delicate load collapsed like dead weight to the ground.

Dead weight.

Not exactly the best representation. But his load certainly wasn't far away.

And Scott couldn't lie to himself when their lifeblood was running down his back.

But he struggled, breathing heavily as blood and tears ran down his face. He scrambled over to his load, grazing his knees and hands on the bare, unforgiving cement beneath him.

And he wondered how everything had turned to this.

 

.......

 

"What happens if we get separated?"

"We won't. Stiles, we can't." And it was true. They couldn't get separated. Together, they were their strongest.

But, separated.

...They would die.

Not being melodramatic or anything. Scott was dead serious. This enemy was too strong. It sapped life from them, literally. Vampires, dude.

Fast, strong. Solitary. Weak at day.

But monsters by night.

 

......

 

It was night time. They hadn't meant for this fight to go on so long. They meant to catch the thing at dusk. Just enough time for it to come out of hiding, but not so deep into the night to give it strength.

But, they got separated.

Scattered like freaking pigeons to get the hell out of there. And Scott and Stiles had been running together...When the monster jumped out of the shadows and pinned Stiles to the ground.

And then Stiles screamed.

Scott ripped the monster off him, hiking Stiles onto his back to keep running.

But it was already too late.

Because the monster ripped a _fucking chunk_ out of Stiles. Bit in and ripped. Not enough to kill him straight away. But the bleeding did it just fine.

And Scott felt his heart breaking slowly, tears running down his face.

Because it was never supposed to end like this.

 

......

 

"I'm _so_ sorry." Scott cried, legs aching from darting up stairs and around this sea-container littered warehouse. His whole body ached, and he was weak from the the vampire's surprise attack that caught them all off guard earlier.

He collapsed again, behind the containers. Stiles slumped from when Scott had managed to put him and with himself laying on the cold floor in front of Stiles.

And he couldn't get up.

He couldn't do it anymore. He was too weak. And Stiles was weighing him down.

 

"It's okay." Stiles said, small as he blinked wearily. But Scott felt no relief at his words. Because Scott knew that expression.

Stiles had given up. Had _given in_. The face he wore when backing down from Derek. When he was proved wrong. Stiles had proved himself wrong thinking he could live through this.

And that just wasn't okay

"It's _not_ okay." Scott cried out, suddenly so heartsick and tired. "I'm trying Stiles. Let me help. Let me help you!"

"You can help me by standing up and walking away. You need to run, Scott" Stiles said, and Scott was still for a moment. His voice came out exactly the way he felt, and he winced at the pain within it.

" _Stiles_..."

"Yeah. I know." He smiled, but Scott knew it was for his benefit. Stiles didn't feel it. But, he'd always out on a good face for Scott. Even when he was hurting. But Stiles shouldn't be comforting him now. Not when he was dying. Stiles shouldn't be comforting Scott with his death. He never should have had to.

"I love you too." He said. And Scott bit his lip harshly muffle his scream.

"I can't, Stiles." He moaned, falling apart at the sheer prospect of what Stiles was asking of him. "What will I say to your dad?"

"I..." He swallowed, and Scott felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He hadn't meant to make Stiles think of the man he was leaving alone. But Stiles answered anyway, cool logic despite his heartbreak. "Tell him it was an accident. Tell him I tripped over and was cut across my throat. Tell him you ran for help, but it was too late. Tell him I never meant to leave him. That I'm sorry."

"Tell him not to blame himself. That it was my time." He finished, almost nodding to himself. Despite the hand he held to his neck, trying to keep the blood inside him and not on the floor.

He was failing anyway.

"That's bullshit, Stiles!" Scott cried hysterically, keeping watch over the side of the their hiding place while trying to think of a solution. His voice echoed in the void space, and he felt just as empty. The emptiness threatened to destroy him, because it meant Stiles was dying here. And he couldn't stop it.

"What else am I supposed to say?" Stiles asked, and Scott didn't miss the wince as he moved his neck. "I was murdered? That a vampire attacked me and you tried to drag my dying body for miles? Tried to _save_ me? It's better than the truth. The truth will destroy him. Let him live with the other version. With another life. Then maybe he might be able to move on one day."

Scott breathed in sharply, trying to rebut but Stiles was there first.

"You know him. If he thinks somebody did this to me he won't ever stop trying to find them."

"He won't need to, Stiles." Scott said, gritting his teeth with the sudden powerful emotion that flowed through him, but still didn't fight away the emptiness growing. "I'll _kill_ the leech first."

"Thanks Scotty." Stiles said, a lazy smile on his bloodied face. "I can always rely on you to avenge me."

"Yeah." Scott swallowed, the emptiness growing beyond his levels of comprehension. "Like in COD zombies. Go down fighting."

"But there's no restart button this time, huh?" Stiles murmured absently. And Scott wanted to claw his ears out so he wouldn't be able to hear the muted bitterness in his voice.

Because he didn't need to be reminded about how unfair this was.

"Never is in reality." Scott said, trying to move Stiles now that his mind was occupied. Tough chance, but worth every twinge of his complaining muscles. So he could say he didn't go down without some sort of a fight. Didn't leave Stiles here without trying first.

But, Stiles immediately snapped out of it when he felt himself shift slightly.

"No, Scott. Don't try. You need to go. The vampire is still in this place. It will smell my blood and follow it like a trail. You can't be here when it comes."

"I'll fight it here, Stiles. I can do it." Scott tried, feeling stretched out by the emptiness, so large it threatened to make his body burst.

"No you can't. Scott. I'm sorry. I'm so _fucking sorry_. But you can't die here with me." Stiles whispered, and the tears fell through it.

"No, I can-" Scott tired, stubborn as hell. But, Stiles was always the stubbornest in their duo.

"You need to live for me Scott. Please? Let me die knowing you will live the rest of yours?"

"Stiles, you _know_ -"

A noise interrupted him.

A sickening laugh, echoing from behind them. From the darkness of the hallway. Scott hid behind the sea container he'd hidden Stiles with, leaning his body over his best friend. As though he could protect Stiles with his body, purely instinctual.

But it wasn't the first time his instincts failed him.

He watched, waiting. But he felt a weak hand tugging his shirt sleeve, brushing it with blood that was early soaked into the fabric. He turned to look at the sad smile on his friends lips. Blood was flowing from them.

"He's already found me." Stiles whispered, voice thick with the blood. "You need to run. Run far _far_ away."

"No, damnit. How many times do I have to say no?" Scott hissed, low but stung high with emotion, threatening to tear him apart.

"As many times as you want. It's still doesn't change the fact that I'm not letting you die here."

"Well, touché. I'm not leaving you in this horrible place to die either, Stiles." He said, but he saw Stiles just smirk. A bit like the smile Jackson used to have. When he knew something he knew would be good. Stiles gestured at the blood caking his front in glistening rivers under the low light.

"I'm dying here, Scott. You are going to run, and I'm going to die." He said, but then the malicious smirk faded, and a dark sadness settled in.

"But it's okay." He said, eyes looking beyond him and into a place Scott couldn't see....And that absolutely _terrified_ him.

"Don't you dare pull that shit on me, Stiles Stilinski. It's not _fucking okay_."

Stiles shook his head, almost frantically.

"No. No...It will be. It will be okay. I have to stay here, and you have to go. It's the only way"

"I always find another path." Scott said firmly, and a laugh sounded, echoing deep but closer than before. He suddenly became frantic with the pure need to save Stiles. "I need to find another path. I'll carry you out. I've done it before"

"And what, let it follow us? You can't fight it like this, and it will track us down. You stole it's meal. You don't have to be the dessert." Stiles hissed as his heartbeat ran fast, echoing in Scott's head. It was so fast, so delicate. Like the fast beat of a hummingbirds wings.

And Scott longed for the fear to leave his best friend.

And Scott bit his lip, mind running fast. Come on come on _come on McCall._ Think. Use your damned brain and think....but, nothing came up. Absolutely _nothing_.

He was never known for is ability to think of his feet.

And he'd never hated that fact more than now. Stiles was the one good at that. But, he was rather preoccupied holding a hand to his neck to stop the blood poring from it.

"I need..." Scott tried, biting his lip and wanted to scream out his mental anguish, something to give voice to the war inside his mind.

"You need to run, that what you need." Stiles whispered, voice heartbreakingly small. "And you need to go now."

"How can you expect me to let you go? Let you die?"

"You were always going to have to let me go at some stage. I was always going to be left behind. It just came a little earlier than expected." He said, brutal honesty resounding true in Scott's chest.

But it didn't make it any better that he was leaving Stiles to die here.

... _Knowing_ that they would never find his body.

"Please forgive me for this." And Stiles just tilted his head to the side with a calm coming through him, now that he'd gotten what he wanted. His smile was bittersweet, like sugar and lemon twisting together. 

"I already have."

....And Scott's heart just broke a little more.

 

"I love you Stiles. I really do. I'm sorry. _I'm so sorry._ " He cried, moving into a crouch. Ready to run. Ready to leave his best friend behind.

The monster was right around the corner. Death was closing in, ready to consume Stiles....And Scott was going to leave him in the jaws of the beast.

Stiles might have forgiven him. But he was never going to forgive _himself_.

"Off you go." Stiles said, urging him on with a soft push. Scott felt the warmth of his touch run through him, but it only made him want it more. "Run you silly boy."

Scott trembled. Stiles smiled. Scott leaned forward, placing a kiss on his sweaty forehead. Full of the words he couldn't say, because he had to go.

He leaned back, Stiles smiling, his beautiful but bloodied face staring back at him. And Scott bit his lip. Stiles grinned, familiar but damaged in the dark shadows. Slumped against the scratched and abandoned mental in a pool of his own blood, long legs stretched out in front of him.

Abandoned. Left behind.

Scott soaked Stiles in painfully, knowing thing this image would haunt him for the rest of his life. He sobbed, raw and with the full force of emotion.

Then he turned.

And ran away.

Stiles smiled as he watched him run away. Sated and placid. Scott was running, but he still heard the muttered plea, piecing through the wind rushing past his ears.

"But, please.... _remember_ me."

And Scott's tears dried in the wind as he ran away, Stiles words haunting his mind.

Because he knew they would be his last.

 

.........

 

Stiles was just another one that got left behind. Another one that wouldn't be coming back to them.

And that hurt more than words could say.

There had been so many, and yet, Stiles still left them. Well, he didn't leave them. They left him. Scott left him in the building, alone to die either by the monster or by his own blood loss...But it was the monsters fault.

Erica. Boyd. Allison. Aidan... _Stiles_.

They all left them.

But, at least with Stiles....

They had somebody else to blame.

 

...........

 

"Oh, you're the pretty boy's friends?" Was the monsters first words, stepping out of the building and from the shadows.

"Fuck _you_ " Scott hissed. He couldn't take the monsters taunts. Grief and angst was all he had, controlling him and consuming him. There was no room for control.

He stepped forward at the monster, but Derek held an arm out. Keeping him back. Derek wasn't alpha right now. But he was more rational than Scott.

So Scott let him.

"Tsk tsk." The monster cooed. "Sorry about that. He was delicious though. Nice and _breakable_."

Scott growled, and Isaac hissed next to him. The whole pack stood, as one unit. The exact thing they hadn't been that night. They stayed together, as a pack. So they could kill this damned thing. Put it back in the ground.

Because Stiles didn't deserve this.

"Now now. Wouldn't want to end up the same way, hmm?" The monster smirked. And Scott stepped forward. Done with him. With this life.

But he had to live for Stiles.

Even so, the joy of killing this monster was for his own pleasure. His own relief. To kill the thing that killed his best friend.

Because revenge burned _deep_.

And it was all he could feel. All he could smell, the dark scent of death and hate. All he could hear, the heavy beat of his own heart, thumping in his ears like the steady beat of a death march.

Because this bastard was going to die.

 

He couldn't save Stiles. The fact stung, and it felt like his heart was bleeding out. Sharp stabbing pain that would fade with time.

But the guilt would never fade.

He would feel it everyday. Living in a world which Stiles no longer could.

But at least he could feel a little lighter knowing Stiles' murderer would never hurt anyone else again. That Stiles death meant at least this one dark being was removed from the world.

That Stiles death meant something.

That somehow, this pain meant that there was something better on the other side. That he would be able to feel something else than this horrible, painful abyss.

He _needed_ to.

Or he might never come back from this.

The monster inside Scott consumed him. After months of fighting it every minute of everyday. Fighting against it because he didn't want to be a monster. He wasn't going to be a monster....But now he just didn't care.

They were all monsters.

Monsters because they let Stiles, his best friend, die. They let him die. _Scott_ let him die. Alone. In the dark. Fighting away the darkness as it steadily consumed him. Sinking like quicksand into darkness and death, carless about his struggles to fight and to live.

Then Derek dropped his arm, stepping aside and letting the demon out of its cage.

And Scott felt nothing but the glee of having the monsters blood on his claws.

Because they were the _same_.

....he was a life destroying monster too.

 

.......

 

He was tearing into the monster with no abandon. Screaming and crying all at once, his hate and guilt and grief all mixing into one horrible cocktail.

Although, each swipe held value. And he screamed what each of them meant at the monster so he would know everything that he'd taken away.

"For Stiles." Claw across the chest, blood running free. The blood that the monster stolen from innocents. From Stiles.

"For his father." A punch to the face, so he'd know what the Sheriff would feel like when they told him what had become of his son.

"For the graduation he won't attend." A kick to the legs, so he'd know how it felt to know Stiles wouldn't be beside them on that day. Like they were falling through the earth.

"For the person he will never marry." Cracking ribs with a fierce kick, hoping the broken shards would piece his heart, so he'd know the heartbreak Scott felt, knowing Stiles would never find happiness.

"For the child he will never have." Grabbing hold of his neck, hold strong and crushing so he'd know what it was like to know that the Stilinski family had ended. That Stiles would never hear the first breath of his child coming into the world. So the monster would know what it felt like not to be able to breathe.

"And for the life you took away." Breaking that _fucking neck,_ twisting sharp and strong.

...So the monster would know what it felt like to _die_.

 

......

 

Scott thought he would feel better with the bastard dead.

But the guilt over ending a life came crashing in, along with the continual guilt at leaving Stiles behind.

And he could only feel empty.

The abyss swallowing him, the darkness created from his horrible deed eating him. He felt no relief, only remorse. And no pain either. But the emptiness inside his chest felt worse than the pain. Because it was empty. No emotions, no feelings.

It was the hole Stiles left behind.

A hole that he'd managed to hide from himself, with the dark revenge curling deep in his heart and tasting bitter on his tongue.

But now that was gone. There was nothing left to hide it anymore. And he could feel it. The ache, the cold. Like the warmth had been sapped from him and into that dark hole swirling at the centre of his being, taking all of his capacity to feel with it.

He could only feel empty.

And he tried, hoped, prayed to _feel_ something. Anything. Anything apart from this emptiness that was _festering_.

But his call was not answered.

And he couldn't even get angry about that. He couldn't even feel that small reprieve of any emotion. Because he knew he deserved this. Deserved all the emptiness and the darkness in the world.

Because he left Stiles to be consumed by it....So it only seem right that he was being slowly eaten away by it too. And no amount of emotion in this world could chase that fact away....Because he left Stiles behind to _die_.

Alone.... _Abandoned_.

With only the darkness to call a friend.

Because somebody, somewhere...always got left behind.

And Scott would never forgive himself because of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you feel about the swearing?  
> I've been told the little stars (*) are disorientating in a story.
> 
> I don't swear like this In real life, but I've never had to deal with this type of situation.
> 
> Let me know which way you want it!


	21. Cancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He missed the spring, the warm air and the new life springing up all around him. You would think that he would envy the new life... considering that his own was almost gone.
> 
> But he didn't. His only wish was that he would make it to see the next Spring.
> 
> Stiles was a cancer patient. He had been for the past thirteen years, ever since he was four.
> 
> Surviving so long had made him one of the lucky ones.

Stiles sighed harshly, the frigid air around him condensing with his warm breath and turning into fog. He watched his exhale float up into the air, dispersing and floating away from the world.

He wished he could escape from this boring life, that he could just float away and leave all his problems behind. He snuggled into his beanie and scarf as he walked along the icy path, all to himself on the freezing winter's night.

He missed the spring, the warm air and the new life springing up all around him. You would think that he would envy the new life... considering that his own was almost gone.

But he didn't. His only wish was that he would make it to see the next Spring.

Stiles was a cancer patient. He had been for the past thirteen years, ever since he was four.

Surviving so long had made him one of the lucky ones.

Growing up with cancer changed the way he saw the world. He'd never had a normal life; he was forever attached to some sort of machine.

While others his age where mulling about on the internet, procrastinating and avoiding other people and weather... he cherished every moment.

Everything he saw, he took in fully. He saw everything with open eyes and a clear mind.

People in society where so focused on other peoples beliefs that they rejected anything that didn't fit in with their precious social standing.

But, cancer had made sure that Stiles had been separated from normal life. In a way he was grateful, that he hadn't become so self obsessed and blinded from the world around him.

But...

He was also very _lonely_.

He'd never gone to school, never had friends. Sure, there had been some people he'd met, but once they knew that he was dying they started avoided him, and then they would slowly slip from his life.

He didn't blame them. After all, who would want to be friends with somebody that was dying? Why would you put yourself in a position that would only cause you pain in the end?

Only one person had stayed with him through it all. His name was Derek.

Derek was his carer, the person that made sure he was looked after properly and that he actually took his chemo.

He was around 25, but Stiles had never asked and Derek had never offered to tell him.

You see, Derek wasn't the sweet, energetic deal-with-your-shit-all-the-time type of carer. He wasn't always happy go lucky about everything like most carer's were.

He wasn't above dragging Stiles the hospital to get his chemo.

But, Stiles wouldn't have it any other way

 

........

 

Stiles self consciously tugged on his beanie as a gaggling group of girls passed by, strapped into teetering high heels and armed with fake-ID's.

He knew they were talking about him. They always did.

It wasn't everyday that you saw a bald teenage boy, dignity trying to be held together with the grey beanie that covered his head.

Yes... he was bald. He had been for about ten years, when they started the chemo.

People these days where so focused on what they looked like, and they took great personal offence at seeing somebody that didn't fit in with the social standards.

He sighed again, shrinking into himself and his coat as he moved along.

There was another reason why he didn't like winter, was because it was so bleak and lifeless... it reminded him of himself, the colour disappearing from his life.

People where naturally full of colour, with shiny hair and coloured cheeks those girls often imitated with their expensive potions and powders.

He had none of that.

His complexion was so bleak; he had no colour in his cheeks or any hair to accentuate his features. His only colour was his bright hazel eyes, and the lashes that framed them.

He liked his eyes; he often stared at their colour in the mirror sometimes... trying to remember what it was like to have hair that same colour.

The colour also reminded him of his parents... well, his mother. He didn't know where they went, or why they left him. Just one day, they packed up and left while he was sleeping.

He was seven years old.

They had decided that they couldn't deal with him dying. And it angered him to this day... because they just suddenly decided that they couldn't deal with him dying.

He was the one dying, and _they_ couldn't deal with it.

They took the coward's way out, leaving him for Derek to find in the morning for his daily check up. But, he couldn't harbour any hate for them... he had to focus all he energy on staying alive and keeping positive.

Doctors told him that they could only do so much, he had to want to keep living to continue.

Once he gives up, it will all be over for him.

Derek kept him occupied enough that he didn't have the time to let his thoughts flow in that direction.

Thinking of Derek... he was probably going to get his ass kicked when he got home.

 

He wasn't allowed to be in the freezing weather. He had a weak immune system and something as simple as the flu could end him.

But, he just liked to get away from it all... if only for a few minutes.

It was in these minutes that his mentality was near its worst. With nothing else to distract him from his fate, his thoughts fell into the darker aspects of life.

Lately, he was finding it harder to keep positive, and he found himself faltering and his thoughts turning, multiple times a day.

After all, it was expected to be hard in the last months of life. The doctors never told him... but he knew. If he hadn't been cured by now then he never would.

And he knew his body wouldn't hold out for much longer.

But, he was also seventeen. A hard age for any teenager.

Others had tests and exams, college inductions and job searching...

He was different.

But, in the end... each and every one of them was on the edge of childhood, and within a few short months would be expected to be an adult.

Stiles was the same. He was just about to become an adult, and everything would change.

He would be free to make his own decisions. And, it _scared_ him.

While it could be a bonus, he could do whatever he pleased...but he was terrified.

His whole life had always been dictated by somebody else, and for the first time he would have to make the decision for himself.

Sometimes he found himself wondering... if he even wanted to live to reach adulthood. If he wanted to have to rely on himself, to decide if he wanted more of that painful treatment or not.

He sometimes he just wanted to hurry up and die. Not forever being in the unknown.

It was easier for normal kids. They knew they would have to choose their future; it was something they had prepared for their whole life.

But Stiles' life had been full of mishaps, and they didn't plan too far ahead in his future... seeing as he might not live to see it.

It was hard trying to prepare for a future that you might not have. But, that was how he lived. And he had come to accept that.

Still, it would be much easier to accept life, if people didn't judge you everyday for living it.

 

He found himself out the front of the little place he called home. It was essentially Derek's flat, but they both shared the 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom space. He took a deep breath, before taking out his key and unlocking the door.

He stepped inside, seeing the living room light on. Despite it being eleven o'clock at night, he wasn't surprised that Derek was still awake.

He placed his coat and scarf on the rack, leaving his keys on the little shelf beside the door. He walked into the living space, socked feet padding almost silently along the floorboards.

'Hello, Stiles." Was Derek's reply from the couch. He wasn't angry, or even particularly worried.

Even if he wasn't allowed out into the bad weather, he always did, everyday. They had formed a sort of understanding. If he wasn't home after one hour, Derek would come get him.

It seemed even Derek understood that he needed to be alone.

"Hi, Sourwolf" He had gotten out of the habit of calling him 'Derek' a very long time ago.

He flopped onto 'his couch' settling in, watching some game show. He'd been calling Derek that since he was six, and was old enough to realise his permanent pout wasn't the normal expression. Therefore, his six year old brain had decided Sourwolf was good name for this pouty princess.

And it had stuck ever since.

But, you see... Stiles had a couch. One that was specifically for him and Derek would never sit on it. Many dying people stayed in bed, curled up... but Stiles didn't like that. The couch was essentially his bed, but he didn't like the stereotype that came with staying in bed. It was like he was resigned with life, not even prepared to leave his room.

It was like his way of fighting back against his cancer... in the only way he could.

He curled up in it, sometimes staying there with a blanket and beanie all day. But, even after an entire day of lying on his couch, he would still shower and go to his own bed to sleep for the night, despite his couch being just as comfortable.

He was a little weird like that.

Something else about Stiles... he never took off his beanie, only compromising to take showers. He was already different enough. And he didn't like to flaunt his differences.

Over the years, Derek had bought him many beanies, and had only seen him without one on his head once.

He would never try to take it off, as many others would be tempted to do, seeing somebody trying to hide something. Whenever somebody tried to convince him to take it off... he wouldn't. It was his biggest insecurity.

The doctors had long since learned to not take it off him when he got PET scans.

After the show wrapped up, some lady winning the prize, while Stiles tried to not be jealous of her simple happiness, they both stood up. Stiles left for a shower and Derek cleaned up the room.

Cleanliness was priority in this house... Stiles needed to be protected from germs. Most people would just leave the dirty dishes for morning, or just leaving the blankets on the floor... but cancer had changed that about their lives as well.

After finishing and hearing the water turn on in the bathroom, Derek settled on the couch again, simply sitting and waiting for Stiles, despite already being showered and in his pyjamas.

Not one night since he started caring for Stiles full time, had he gone to bed before him. He used to tuck Stiles in at night when he was small, but even now, he still watched over him until he was settled in for the night.

He was always mindful of his personal space... but in the end he was still his carer and guardian, paid to keep him safe.

Even if he wasn't paid, he would still do it... not that Stiles would ever know.

He cared for the boy, he had watched him grow up, raised him, protected him, and comforted him though his emotional and physical pain.

He knew Stiles thought he tolerated him because he was paid... and despite it being false, he felt no need to correct him.

Stiles didn't need to know that Derek loved him like a son. He wanted Stiles to die peacefully. He didn't want Stiles to feel guilt when he died. He didn't want Stiles to know that it would hurt him so brutally when he died.

Stiles deserved a peaceful death... after all the pain he had survived though.

Stiles knew he would have Derek in his final moments, Derek made sure he knew it. But, he didn't need to know that by having him by his side, he was also hurting him.

But... life was good at the moment. Stiles was in remission and the chemo was working well. He wasn't in much pain.

... but that could all change without a moment's notice.

 

Derek heard the water shut off, and he waited for Stiles to leave the bathroom. He always sat here and waited, listened for any anomalies. It wouldn't be the first time he had suddenly felt pain while showering, collapsing and being sent to hospital.

Stiles couldn't keep much from Derek... but Derek would never disrespect his privacy or insecurities.

Stiles walked from the bathroom and changed, before appearing in the doorway, a new beanie (one he slept in) on his head and flannelette pyjamas hiding his thin form.

"Night Sourwolf" He said, giving a small wave and disappearing into his room again.

Derek went into the slightly steamy bathroom, brushing his teeth quietly as Stiles settled into bed. After cleaning his teeth, he sterilised the bench tops and replaced the towel that Stiles used. Once he was finished... he walked past Stile's door, stopping momentarily at its side.

Once hearing the steady breathing of sleep, he continued walking to his room and promptly went to bed.

 

.........

 

Derek woke to a sudden tingling in his head, like something was tugging him awake.

He sat up... not knowing why he was awake... just before feeling his bladder complain. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at the time.

3:28am

Oh, the joys of being an insomniac.

He threw his legs over the edge of his bed, standing up and stumbling to the bathroom. After relieving himself, he went up to the basin and cleaned his hands with the 99.9% anti-bacteria hand soap.

He looked in the mirror at his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair and wiped down his face with the cooling water.

Despite all his efforts, he couldn't get his eyes to wake up.

Sighing, he walked out of the bathroom, going across the small hall and opening Stiles's door, checking on the boy.

He saw the boy lying peacefully on his bed, facing away from him. He almost left the boy alone... before he heard the sound of liquid hitting the floor.

Walking into the room, he looked around for some sort of leak. Considering it was winter, anything could have happened to the piping. He followed the sound to Stiles' beside, finally looking down at the boy. His heart dropped.

Nothing could have woken him up sooner.

Blood covered Stiles' sheets, some dripping to the floor.

Oh, _shit_.

 

He ripped back the sheets, leaning over Stiles and checking him over.

Thick, congealed blood flowed from the corners of Stiles' lips and onto the sheets, coating his pyjama top and his beanie. His eyes were closed and his body was limp and unresponsive.

He wasn't asleep, he was unconscious.

Derek ran from the room, calling the ambulance on speed dial.

There was something about being so familiar with illness that he hated with a passion. He hated knowing. He hated that he knew what this meant.

...Stiles was no longer in remission.

 

.....

 

He sat waiting as he doctors worked on Stiles. Trying to figure out what had happened to cause the child whom was in his 3rd year of remission, to relapse.

Acute lymphocytic leukaemia.

Stiles had suffered from it his whole life... and it had finally taken its toll. It would all begin again. Restarting all those treatments and causing more pain.

An endless cycle.

Although... he wasn't sure Stiles would survive it this time.

A doctor walked out of the two-way door with blood splattered on his bleached white scrubs. The doctor adjusted his glasses and called out to the room, only checking the clipboard once.

"Ah, Mr...Derek?" He called, stumbling slightly over his name, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

It seemed Derek wasn't the only one that was exhausted.

He stood up, stretching his legs as he walked over to the doctor, ignoring the looks from the others in the waiting room. He doctor shook his hand, clammy grip not comforting in the slightest.

"Hello, follow me please" He doctor said, turning and walking through a different door with Derek trailing behind.

Upon entering the room, the doctor went around and sat at the desk, facing the chairs in front of him. Derek sat down, knowing this process all too well. The doctor sighed as he looked over the records. After a moment, he looked up from the paperwork and at Derek.

Sighing again, he sat back in his chair.

"Just, tell me already." Derek growled, hating the unknown.

The doctor looked him over before clasping his hands and placing them on the table, biting his lip momentarily.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid the cancer had spread to his liver" he said, watching Derek for a reaction.

...and it seemed Stiles wouldn't reach adulthood after all.

 

He shut his eyes tightly as he willed tears away, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his composure.

"...How long?" He asked after a moment of silence, the doctor fully understanding what he was asking.

"Well, it all depends on how he reacts to treatment... but if nothing miraculous happens, 6 months."

6 months may sound like a long time to any other person... but not to Derek.

Not when it was the only time Stiles had left.

He had so much more life to live; he was almost there... almost an adult. But now he would never fully be free. As an adult he would finally have full control over his body. All his life, decisions had been made for him. What he ate, when he slept, what chemicals they could pump into his body.

His whole life had been a spiral of madness. Forever being pulled in different directions at every plot twist.

He'd never been able to know how it felt to be in control.

And now he never would.

 

......

 

They released him the next day, sending him home under the professional care of Derek.

They always released him early, seeing as he had a carer. But, this time Stiles had more than just Derek at his side...He had his IV, filled with his cell-destroying chemo.

He sighed weakly, flopping onto his couch as Derek set up his IV at his side.

The circle of weakness and pain was starting again.

He would become so weak he couldn't walk, his bones giving up. He would sleep the days away, and vomit at least once a day.

The joys of Leukaemia and Liver cancer, joined with the deadly chemicals of the chemotherapy.

It was a fantastic cocktail of pain.

 

.....

 

Derek woke up one morning, later than usual (meaning after the sun came up). It was always better to wake up naturally.

It felt like an accomplishment to sleep though the night, these days it was hard to relax enough to fall asleep. He usually crumpled from exhaustion, physically unable to stay awake. He sat up, watching the sun shine in though his window as it rose into the sky.

He looked at the sun, and wondered how many sunrises Stiles had left. Catching himself in the thought, he stood up and wandered to Stiles' room.

"Hi, Stiles" He said, announcing his presence. The boy only mumbled a response, not even opening his eyes.

Seemed today was just another bad day.

Walking into the room, Derek saw him fully. And the beanie was not on Stiles' head... it had fallen off during his sleep, and he hadn't even noticed. He was usually so eager to cover up his biggest insecurity.

...But that was just another part of Stiles that was slowly slipping away.

He smiled sadly at Stiles' curled back.

Gingerly picking up the material from the ground, he walked over to Stiles and placed it on his head, securing it on the shiny, slightly blemished skin.

He forgot that the cancer could make his skin blemished. Stiles had been in remission so long he forgot what it was like.

It hurt to see his once creamy skin blemished with under shades of purple and blue. It was just another sign that the cancer was getting in. Getting past his defences and breaking up his will to survive. He went over to the drowsy boy, leaning over him to see his face.

"Time to face the day, Stiles" He said, pulling back the sheets from the weak body.

Chemo had hit him hard... it wasn't going well.

He put his left arm beneath Stiles' frail knees and his right arm around his back. He lifted the boy up from his bed, and Stiles rested his head on Derek's shoulder, his hands gripping Derek's shirt weakly.

Stiles whimpered at the sudden movement, and Derek felt his heart pinch painfully.

"I know it hurts, just bear with me." Derek said, cradling Stiles' body against his chest.

Derek held onto the IV with his pinkie, pushing it forward at Stiles' knee. It seemed a delicate feat, but they did this everyday... he gotten a handle on it. It was just the usual now. They went through the house before arriving at Stiles' couch.

He gently lent down, placing Stiles on the soft leather. Stiles immediately curled into the comfortable material. Derek placed the IV at the head of the couch, making sure that there were no twists that prevented the bag of poison to empty into Stiles' cancer filled veins.

When he made sure it was all set, he went and got the blanket from his couch, placing the material over Stiles' curled body. He tucked it under Stiles chin, and the boys frail hands curled around the fabric.

"Stiles, do you want a pillow?" He asked the boy.

Stiles only mumbled a response, burying his face into the couch, trying to ward off the pain. Derek bit his lip. He hated seeing Stiles like this....But he wouldn't stop until Stiles asked him too.

Moving about like this was the only thing that kept Stiles from rotting away.

He placed a fluffy pillow at the end of the couch, ready if Stiles wanted it. After all was done... he just stood over the boy, he had nothing else to fuss over to distract himself from the state of the boy he was caring for.

Stiles was weak, to say the least.

His body hadn't accepted the chemo. It rejected the substance it had only just healed from.

But, his cancer was in his white blood cells. While trying to fight it off he was only making himself sicker. His skin was pale, his bones were weak.

He was wasting away.

 

.....

 

Good days seemed to be few and far between.

He hadn't moved much other from his bed and the couch. And the only time he did move was to go to the toilet to vomit. Derek could only stand idly by and watch Stiles' health rapidly decrease. But, they couldn't give up on him just yet. Derek would fight for him until he lost the will to live; only then would he give up.

But, judging by the way things were...he wouldn't have to fight very long.

He knew this would come... he'd been preparing for it his whole life. He knew the day would come where he would have to let him die.

It hurt.

It hurt to watch the boy he had come to love as his son, die so slowly and painfully.

He had always known this would come.

But you could never fully prepare yourself to watch a loved one die, and in a painful way such as this.

 

.....

 

Another morning...another bad day for Stiles.

But somehow, they got through.

He was helping Stiles out of bed, ignoring the painful twinges that his heart made at the noises that escaped Stiles' mouth. He shushed the boy, whispering sweet nothings in his ear, like it could make the pain go away...Just like any other morning.

The boy moaned in pain, loud and sudden. Derek stopped, looking surprised and shocked. Stiles looked up at him from the corner of his eye, bloodshot and all so tired.

"...not today, Sourwolf." He said sadly, tears falling.

And that was it... _This_ was it. It was the end. His defence had cracked. He had lost the will to get up, to fight in the only way he could.

He had lost the will to live.

"Oh, Stiles." He said, falling to the boy's side, kneeling on the floor and hugging Stiles whom sat on the bed. Stiles hugged back, his thin little arms barely any pressure on Derek's back.

After letting Stiles' tears flow until there was none left, Derek asked the dreaded question.

"Do you want it to stop?" He questioned. But it he meant the pain. If Stiles had lost the will to live, then there was no point to continue chemo.

He didn't need any more pain than he already had.

"Yes... please... just make it all stop." Stiles whimpered, almost pleading.

"Okay, Stiles. OKay" he said, rubbing comforting circles into Stiles' back, as they both tried to fight back tears.

Stiles didn't succeed, and Derek knew he wouldn't hold out long.

 

.........

 

The chemo had been eliminated from the house, and now his IV only supplied pain relief.

Stiles was going though the stages of dying. First there was disbelief. But, Stiles had gotten though that quickly... He'd always known he was going to die young. Then his body gave up... first slowly, then all at once.

He no longer had control over his legs, and his limbs were cold to the touch.He had spasms occasionally, sometimes because his body was trying to reject the cancer... but sometimes it was just because of the pain. His joints caused him so much pain he could no longer walk.

He'd tried to; he wanted to be able to do something for himself. Derek fought with him about it until Stiles succumbed to exhaustion, and he bruised his hands and knees in the process. And that was a very bad thing for a Leukaemia patient.

His platelet count was extremely low; he'd had to go to hospital to have a blood transfusion to keep him alive and to take away some of his pain... if only for short while.

Reddish bruising had developed on his feet... meaning that his platelet count was within the single digits.

The end wasn't far away.

 

.....

 

At his request, Derek moved him to his couch.

He was so weak; he couldn't even keep his head up. Derek had put pillows behind him to keep him propped up. Like a limp doll, thin and with pale skin like fragile porcelain.

It was so painful. His tumour in his liver was pressed against his nerves, constantly causing him pain.

He found himself looking out the window, watching the sunset over the snow coated buildings in the distance, the orange light reflecting in his sad eyes. It was almost Spring... but he knew he wouldn't make it. The snow was only just beginning to melt, and he knew he was going to die within the week. 

But it was okay.

He never really wanted this life anyway.

It hadn't been a good one, you could ask anyone and they would say the same thing. He was just drained, he didn't feel the urge to live anymore. He was ready to die... he didn't need to fight his fate any longer. It was stupid, because nobody won against fate, and yet he spent all those years fighting it. He finally understood that, but now it was his time to die.

It would be okay. Now he wouldn't have to worry about his future, and nobody would miss him.

That wasn't right though. He was lying to himself.

Derek would. In the last months they had grown closer, in a way he'd never wanted. Now he would give Derek pain, and Stiles already had enough pain in this life to not wish it on his greatest enemy.

But he would.

And for that...he was sorry.

 

.....

 

Stiles had only moments of consciousness left.

He was laid on his side, on his couch, and Derek was by his side... trying hard to keep his emotions in check.

"It's okay Sourwolf, I never really wanted freedom anyway." he stated suddenly, and ignoring Derek's indignant noise he continued on, rephrasing as he stared into Derek's beautifully coloured eyes.

Stiles liked his eyes.

He didn't mind if they would be the last thing he saw.

"You see, humans are scared of the unknown, I am no different. I've never known what freedom is, for I have never had freedom. Everything has always been chosen for me. I don't want things to change, and I happy to die before they do. If my future is without you by my side, Sourwolf...I don't want to live it."

Derek could only stare uncomprehendingly. All this time, he had though that Stiles would want freedom, want to live his life the way he wanted, like any other teenager.

But Stiles wasn't like any other teenager.

Circumstances had changed him from a normal boy into this cancer ridden teen. He guessed it was a given that Stiles wouldn't be like others his age.

He didn't want freedom, if it meant he would have to leave Derek. To leave the only stable thing in his life, the only trustworthy person he had ever known.

It was painfully bittersweet.

"Oh, Stiles. I'm sorry" He virtually whimpered.

Stiles bristled.

"Please Sourwolf... don't. I don't want to give you any pain. Just leave now, call a funeral parlour to come collect me so you don't have to see..." He didn't say it "Just, _Please_." He pleaded.

It was Derek's turn to feel anger.

"No... _damnit_!" He yelled. "I'm not leaving you to die alone, Stiles. I will not leave you. You don't deserve to be alone. And I physically can't. To me it would be like doing the exact same thing your parents did. And I can't do that to you Stiles..." He swallowed. "You're like my son."

There was silence as Stiles took it in.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to." he said, tears falling from his beautiful eyes and absorbing into his blanket that he laid on.

"It's okay, it's nothing to be ashamed of...." Derek swallowed, feeling so raw inside. "Love isn't something to be feared."

Tears began freely falling from Stiles' eyes as he cried out of pain.. and love he didn't know he had. It overtook him, his feelings finally joined together like a jigsaw puzzle. A darkness he hadn't known coming into light.

He loved Derek. And he'd only just realised in the last hours of life.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't. Everything was finally coming together just before it was about to fall apart.

"But at least, please don't cry for me when I'm gone." He asked, clutching his torso as pain ripped though him, struggling to keep his eyes focused on Derek.

"Stupid... fine." He said, grabbing Stiles' little hands in his own as Stiles fought his pain.

They both knew it was a lie, but it seemed to comfort Stiles anyway.

"Thank you, My Sourwolf." He said, a small peace filling his voice and eyes looking into a place Derek couldn't see. Derek bit his lip harshly, wanting to shake Stiles to bring him back from that place, and say 'Stop it, Stiles'. But this was not his choice. This was nobody's choice but Stiles'.

But even he was laid victim to whatever came next.

And Derek knew that those words would be the last Stiles would ever say.

 

.....

 

He watched Stiles, the boy's eyes un-focusing and focusing again. His pain was too great; his body was succumbing to it.

All of a sudden, Derek realised that these where the last moments of his life.

"No... don't... Don't. You. _Dare_." He tried. It was too quick. All this time he'd had to prepare, all the years he'd lived with this in the back of his mind. But it was here. It was now. He wasn't ready.

Nobody could ever be ready for this.

" _Please_... don't." He pleaded. But his plea's echoed worthlessly.

And then Stiles was gone.

His eyes finally went blank and his already weak grip went limp... his body relaxed on the couch, his pain finally gone.

But so was he.

Silence reigned as Derek tried to comprehend what had just occurred. After everything, after all those years of fighting and medicine and pain...just ends like this?

No. He couldn't be dead.

Stiles deserved a big gigantic celebration of a death. Something to commemorate his life that was nothing but hardships... something that showed what a fighter he was.

Not this.

Never this.

Stiles didn't deserve something so _ordinary_. Not when he'd fought this moment his whole life. Death shouldn't be so straightforward, it should be a grand event. Stiles should laid to rest on a boat, set out to float across the water and into the stars, like Odin's wife. Set free from this life that had only hurt him. But, he had never gotten anything that he _deserved_.

Not in this life.

And it was in that moment, that Derek let everything fall apart. Tears finally fell, and with them...his world fell apart.

For Stiles Hale was his world...

And now he was gone.


	22. Bullet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death followed Derek.
> 
> It was a unstoppable force that was seemingly intwined with his life force. It had seeped into his soul and latched on.
> 
> Death had been in his life ever since the fire. He knew it was never going to leave him soon.
> 
> It was always in his life, and always would be.
> 
> ...But he didn't know how literal that statement really was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death by bullet suggested. But, it got a little out of control. Sorry?

Death followed Derek.

It was a unstoppable force that was seemingly intwined with his life force. It had seeped into his soul and _latched_ on.

Death had been in his life ever since the fire. He knew it was never going to leave him soon.

It was always in his life, and always would be.

...But he didn't know _how_ literal that statement really was.

 

........

 

Stiles sat.

The morning light was nice on his skin, shining in on him from the wide windows next to him. It was so hard to get warm these days. He was always cold. Always.

He hadn't felt warm for a very long time.

But he could pretend. With the sun shining on him as it was. He remembered how it felt, so he imagined that now. The brush of warmth on his skin, slowly working its way in and warming him up inside.

Erica came up behind him, probably trying to be sneaky but failing. He always knew where the others were, now.

"Hey." She said, flopping down beside him, her golden hair sprawling around her head from where she lay. It looked so nice in the sun, shining like it used to.

They'd all lost things that could be brought back by the sun, by the light.

...But only temporarily.

Once they left the sun it would be back.

So they laid there, "feeling" the warmth on their skin. Appreciating the morning light, reaching out over the horizon of Beacon Hills.

"So, what are you thinking about doing today?" She asked while staring up at the roof. Stiles smirked, looking into the sunrise. It was kind of a running joke now.

"What do you think?" He asked. She huffed a laugh.

"Oh, I don't know. Go home?" She asked. His lips twitched at the thought. Instead of answering, he eased his head back, letting the light soak into his neck as a attempt to warm up the cold inside himself.

Boyd came in a moment later. Appearing out of nowhere and just laying down beside Erica in the light of the sun.

It felt like old times, just chilling with the pack. At least part of it anyway.

The only difference was that...well...

They were dead.

Gasp. Shock horror. The maiden of a 1950's drama feinting at the pure blasphemy of it all...Yeah. Whatever. It was old news now. To them at least.

The world of the dead wasn't very different from the real one. The only difference was, really, that they were dead.

Oh. And that they were stuck in this room. That too.

But not just any random room on earth. It was Derek's loft....Their pack house.

They couldn't leave. A barrier, almost like mountain ash blocked their path. A invisible barrier, with no apparent weaknesses. It was impenetrable.

They knew. They tried.

They were stuck here, for God knows how long. But, they had a reprieve.

They could go into a almost sleep like state, their corporal ghostly forms disappearing until they woke. Like Boyd just a moment ago. He'd woken up, appearing out of nowhere.

That was a normal thing now.

And it was okay. Just them and their enclosed space.

Except for the fact that Derek lived here still. Wandering around the apartment with only their ghosts for company.

The first month had been hard. Erica had been there for a while, Boyd a little shorter. So, at least when Stiles arrived, he arrived to see them waiting for him.

But it had still been hell. Crying every second minute. Fighting against the barriers that constrained him here, screaming to be let free. And Derek.

(The others had apparently seen it before.)

But the night Stiles died....Derek had come home. Starting out at the empty space that they had actually stood in. Watching him.

And he just collapsed.

Like a puppet with all its strings cut. Sudden. Brutal.

He just cured up on the floor in front of his door, and he just laid there. He didn't cry, he just laid, eyes staring through the windows like the earth was falling. Beyond crying. Beyond feeling anything but pain.

And then he was scratching at the floor as his grief sent him reeling into his wolf, drawing blood from the beds of his nails. Face buried into his arms as his body shook.

And it broke Stiles' heart.

It was one of the hardest things he'd had to watch. Erica and Boyd had only looked somber, head down and eyes adverted as they disappeared into their sleep.

But Stiles stayed. Feeling obligated to Derek's pain, since he had been the cause of it. He just sat there on the floor, looking at the damage his death had done.

After that Derek had been silent. Only sleeping in his bed, covers drawn up to his chin. Staring up at his ceiling, eyes blank and unseeing. Catatonic in his grief.

And Stiles could feel nothing but the guilt and the cold.

 

.......

 

Stiles watched Derek try to live.

Because three months had past. And, society didn't allow much time from grief. Derek's boss had been sympathetic for the first month, encouraging by the second but forceful by the third. He let him grieve, then started encouraging him to get back to doing things...but now he was forcing Derek to come back to work. Or lose his job.

And Derek had already lost enough in life.

So there he was. Sitting at the counter as the sun rose through the loft windows. Sat on his stool, staring into his cereal.

And Stiles could do nothing but watch him fall apart.

He was unshaven. Eyes sunken into his face with the bags beneath them. He was unwashed, in sweat pants and the most comfortable shirt he had.

Stiles couldn't judge him for trying to find any comfort he had left. There wasn't much left he could find comfort in.

Because everything was just so cold.

 

......

 

One day Erica went into sleep and never came back.

Stiles missed her golden hair in the sunlight next to him. Like a small shining sun by his side, fighting away that darkness for just a moment.

But he couldn't blame her for picking oblivion over this. He just couldn't let Derek go. Let any of them go.

Not when Derek just walked around, like every breath was killing him.

 

......

 

Derek was sleeping when a knock sounded at his door. Stiles watched him open his eyes and sniff the air.

He saw him look pained, before closing his eyes and trying to dissolve back into sleep. Away from having to think and having to feel.

Reality was not a kind place to be for Derek. Stiles understood that.

...It just hurt him to see Derek try and escape from life.

But the knocking persisted. Up until it stopped and the click of the lock echoed through the mostly empty loft.

"Derek?"

Stiles heart twisted painfully at the sound of his first love's voice. God, he missed her. He missed so many people. He missed _life_.

"What do you want, Lydia?" Derek said, not bothering to get out of bed. Lydia followed his voice, looking beautiful as ever as she unknowingly walked past Stiles.

But, Stiles saw the dark purple she hid beneath her eyes with makeup.

And he just hoped his death didn't replay in her mind. He hoped her power hadn't been so cruel... Because she had been in his conscious the moment he died.

She had felt Stiles' heart die in his chest.

It had helped him pass, with her there in the most intimate way possible. It had given him a sense of security and love as his heart stopped beating. Filling up all the holes inside himself, smoothing him over and completing him.

It was peaceful.

But Stiles knew that he had taken apart of her with him. He could feel it when she walked past...

She wasn't whole anymore.

But God, she was so beautiful, even in grief. And Stiles never stopped loving her....Even in death.

"What do I want?" Lydia repeated. Hands on her hips as she stared at Derek. Derek refused to face her, so he walked around the other side of the bed. "I don't want anything. You want to get yourself up."

"And why would I want to do that?"

"Because you are alive, Derek! You are _alive_. You lived. You still breathe and your heart still beats!" She exploded, before the fire in her seemed to die. Her face went soft. And eyes looked far beyond her years.

"Stop trying to join them, Derek." She said quietly, tears thickening her voice.

Derek flinched away from her. Stiles did too.

Because he couldn't bear the thought of his fate becoming Derek's. Of sitting in this place. Laying in the sun trying to warm the never ending cold within himself. Of darkness and cold and silence.

There had been enough darkness in Derek's life.

He deserved to _live_ again.

"You don't know what you are talking about, Lydia." And Stiles knew deflection when he saw it. Because Derek wasn't objecting to it.

He really was trying to join them.

"I don't know what I'm taking about?" Lydia asked, angry now. "I don't know?" She cried. "I know Derek. I may not not exactly how you feel but I freaking know, okay. I know better than probably anyone right now. Knowing death is my forte! My superpower. I know what it feels like, the ache and the grief. Overwhelming to the point where you only feel cold. I lost people too Derek."

"...I lost Stiles too." She said. And Stiles saw the tears in her eyes.

"But have you lost everyone Lydia? Have you lost everyone that ever meant something to you? Did you lose your entire family. Did you lose two of your attempt at a new family within a few months? Did you lose the your emissary, your only pack human, a bare few weeks later?" Derek was yelling now, sitting up in bed as staring at her.

"Do you breathe knowing every breath isn't yours? That every best of your heart doesn't belong to you? Because it do. I know this life doesn't belong to me. I don't deserve this life. It's not mine to have. It should have been taken from me so many times, Lydia. So many freaking times."

"But Death only follows me. It never takes me, never gives me that simple relief. It just takes everything else from me" his body shook with the wave of emotion he felt. "It takes everyone I love."

Lydia only stared at him.

Stiles expected her to be angry. Because while Derek's points weren't invalid, she'd lost a lot too. They all had. Because she felt every death like her own. Allison's. Aiden's...Stiles'

She felt them all.

But she was only calm. Watching him with that age old knowledge in her eyes. Of a woman who had seen too much. Who knew too much.

"Have you cried since you lost them?"

Derek recoiled like she'd hit him. Lydia's hands shook as she began to realise the depth of the hole Derek had buried himself into.

"Have you cried since you lost Stiles?" She reiterated. But Derek still looked like he'd been stabbed through the chest.

He opened his mouth, scowl in place and body tensed, with a rebuttal on his lips. But then he seemed to remember something. His face fell, and he seemed to curl in on himself while hardly moving a muscle. Shrinking like a dying leaf in the fall.

"No." He answered, looking away like he was ashamed. "I can't."

Lydia looked like somebody grabbed her heart and squeezed it tight. A small tear fell from her eye, leaving a watery trail down her face. And Stiles didn't miss the way Derek looked at the tear enviously.

"I'm sorry, Derek." She said a moment later, small and quiet. Derek just shook his head like he'd heard it all before.

And he probably had.

"I can't cry. Not anymore. I can't let myself. I deserve this. I deserve every painful breath. Is very beat of my heart. I can't release this pain, not when it's everything I deserve. It's the repayment for losing them. It's my price. My punishment."

Lydia opened her mouth to say something, but Derek talked over her.

"Please Lydia. Let me mourn."

"There's a difference between mourning and fading away, Derek." Lydia scolded lightly. Stiles saw the pain on her face, clear as day. But Derek was only forlorn. Smiling in such as way that it wasn't a smile. It was accepted pain. It wasn't anything like what a smile should be.

It was far too sad.

"Well maybe that's exactly what I want."

"Please don't fade away Derek. We can't lose you too" She said, pleading. Tears still falling.

"I was already lost." He said. And Stiles found this too hard to watch. Because the fire had never left Derek. And Stiles' death had only added to its flame.

"We can bring you back Derek. You don't have to suffer this way."

"There's nothing to come back too." Derek shot back. Lydia didn't give up though. Stiles had to admire her resilience...when he knew it broke her heart to talk about this.

"There life Derek. So much more for you to see. You're alive, while so many others aren't, Derek. But you are. Please don't let that go."

"I don't want to see anything Lydia. This life isn't mine to choose what I want. Don't you get it? I'm not supposed to be alive. I should have died in that fire. I should have died instead of taking Boyd's life. I should have died for Stiles, instead of him for me. I'm supposed to be dead, Lydia." He whispered.

"Death just doesn't want me."

Lydia shook her head, hot tears steaming down her cheeks. Derek and his arms around his body, and it was frightening how such a large man had made himself so small.

"I want you Derek. We want you back." She tried, but she was falling apart. Derek just stayed, cold and broken. Composed and yet shattered in ways Stiles could never know.

"Well I want to die Lydia. We can't all have what we want."

And that seemed to be the breaking point for Lydia. Because she started sobbing, running out past Stiles and out the door.

 

And then it was just Stiles and Derek again.

With the darkness and the cold.

 

........

 

Boyd came to say goodbye before he left.

He didn't say anything. He just hugged Stiles to his chest, before going over and placing a hand on Derek's pillow, laying down next to the sleeping man. Being as close to Derek as their forms would let them, staring into his sleeping face with searching eyes. And his face fell, so Stiles knew he hadn't found what he needed to see.

So he closed his eyes.

Stiles watched him fade away right there. Body slowly going from their semi-corporal to translucent. Then to nothing. He was gone, a sad frown on his face.

And then Stiles really was alone.

 

......

 

Stiles wanted to be numb too.

The guilt and the cold ate at him. The sun hardly seemed to warm him anymore. And every time he saw the grief on Derek's face he wanted to just drop to the floor and let it swallow him.

But he couldn't give up. Couldn't leave everything behind. He couldn't let go of the living.

Not when Derek was still trying to.

Because Derek deserved to know that they never blamed him for living without them. He needed to know that it was okay.

It was _okay_ to live again.

 

......

 

Once day, Stiles woke from his sleep to find that Lydia had gotten Derek a grief councillor.

And Stiles was man enough to admit that he cried with relief that day. Laid on Derek's couch with tears streaming down his cheeks. An arm over his eyes and a watery smile on his face.

Because Derek was going to get better.

And that fact seemed to be the only thing keeping him warm inside.

 

.....

 

Stiles woke from his sleep one day when the loft door closed.

He took himself out of sleep. Waking up each of his limbs, using his hands to wrench his own body out of sticky glue that was trying to absorb him.

Needless to say, it was getting harder to wake up.

...And sometimes he just couldn't see the point in it. He was already dead. There was nothing left for him here.

But...Derek was always there in the back of his mind. The last barrier, preventing him from simply disappearing into a abyss. So he woke. He wrenched himself awake, appearing suddenly on the couch he liked to occupy.

The sun was setting. Stiles had missed the night and the whole day, he'd gone to sleep when Derek had last night.

It had felt like two hours.

He watched Derek stand at the counter. Hands braced on the counter with head looking down at the worn surface.

Stiles wondered if he was looking at the soda stain Stiles left once, when he'd flailed and hit his drink over. Derek had yelled at him, forcing Stiles to scrub at it with a toothbrush. There was still a faint pink tinge to this day.

Stiles hoped he wasn't looking at it. Because Stiles' ghost was already haunting him.

His own memories didn't need to do so as well.

But then Derek stood, and Stiles thoughts disappeared as he watched the man approach the lounge area.

Derek seemed to be having an internal battle. Wincing as thoughts flooded him...Stiles was familiar with that feeling.

But it was strange on Derek.

The man sat down on his single chair, angled like the couch to face the sun. He stared out at it for a moment, forearms resting on his knees with hands clasped tightly.

And then he spoke.

"My grief councillor says I should talk to you like you are here." He swallowed, and Stiles breathed in sharply. "...or something."

"It's supposed to help me deal with...it. Talking like you are still here." He said, and Stiles both loved and hated hearing his voice for the first time in two months. Because Derek didn't talk in his loft...There was technically nobody left to talk to

But, it was both painful and wonderful.

Because nothing good was ever without pain. So it was good. It hurt. But it was good. Because if Derek got better, Stiles might find peace too.

"She knows about our kind. She...ah...She was your councillor." Derek pushed out like every word pained him. Stiles knew it did.

But Morrell was good. Nice to see she'd become a adult councillor, making more of herself. She was a shady, but relatively good woman.

And she let Stiles talk.

She let him grieve when he needed, too. Before pulling him out of it and putting him on the right path...It was just what Derek needed.

"She says that if I accept what I....what happened to you, I will be able to move forward. She tells me I needed to deal with my 'freshest' trauma, to open up my past."

"She tried to make me talk about what happened that night. But..." Derek stopped for a moment. Clenching his hands and looking at the floor. His knuckles whitened.

"But I haven't quite processed it myself. I can't, because it's like a gaping wound. I don't want to rub salt into it. I already hurts enough." Stiles winced. "But she says I can't keep locking things away. Locking them in the draws of my mind, shout them down deep. She says I ahem to open them, step by step, inch by inch. But I've spent so long suppressing that instinct that it feels wrong."

"So I have to talk to this freaking empty room about my feelings. Pretending you are alive and sitting right there on my couch and-"

Derek stopped. And he stared at the couch. Stiles felt Derek's eyes pierce right through him. The man stared at the upholstery, like he could see Stiles sitting there. Breathing light breath's. Heartbeat steady in his ears. A goofy smile on his face, and a fearless light in his eyes.

"But you are not here." Derek said. Like it was a fact that was staring him right in the face.

"You aren't here. You're dead. You _died_. Died right there in front of me, a bullet meant from me in your spleen. You died right there, Lydia crouched over you screaming not to leave her. But you still did."

"You left her. You left us....you left _me_."

Stiles was crying. And Derek was just sprouting these facts like it was normal. Like they didn't hurt him.

"And now I'm alone. You were just another boy...another _freaking child_ that died because of me. So many children have died. So many souls that I've taken before they could reach adulthood-"

"No! Derek! Don't. _Please_ don't, it's not your fault. You didn't kill me!" Stiles screamed. But Derek couldn't hear him.

His voice was useless to him.

"-and you weren't the first. I should have stopped you from coming into my life. Because it was already evident what was going to happen to you if you did. Just like the rest. Paige. My little brother Charlie, my sister Felicity, Will and Annabelle. And baby Danielle. And then Erica. Boyd. Allison. Aiden. And...you."

"They weren't your fault. None of it was your fault. We were all just victims of circumstance, just like you." Stiles tried to plead. But his voice echoed only to his own ears.

"I killed all of you. Eleven of you. Eleven children's souls, dead and gone. How many years would I get in prison for that? You would know. I should just go to your dad and tell him what I've done. He'd have no choice but to put me in jail for life."

"I would be what I deserved. Because even living this life isn't enough punishment for what I've done to you."

"No... _Derek_." Stiles could only plead.

He was _so cold._

"I did this. I did this. I killed you. You could be sitting here, laughing and smiles and breathing but instead you're in the ground next to your mom. Eaten away by worms and the bacteria, slowly absorbing you into the ground. Taking you away. And I did it. You could be in front of me, but your dead and gone."

"I'm right here! Derek! Please don't. Don't do this to yourself. It's destroying you."

"It's my fault its my fault it's my fault it my fault-" he moaned. And a scream stuck in Stiles throat, choked by his own tears.

But then suddenly it stopped. And Derek fell to the ground, clutching his chest. Stiles screamed out. Shocked and hurt, falling to the ground as he tried to reach Derek.

But then a low, mournful and guttural sound tore itself from Derek's chest. Tearing out from him forcefully and _painfully_.

He curled into himself, and Stiles watched, frozen as he started to shake.

And that's when Stiles realised Derek was crying.

"No...." Derek moaned, arms around himself as sobs tore from his chest as tears fell from his eyes. "I can't....I'm not allowed. I'm not allowed to cry."

But Stiles shook his head, tears blurring his vision as he hovered next to Derek. Going on his knees next to him.

"Yes. Derek" he soothed, a heartbroken smile on his face. "Yes you can."

Derek's sobs echoed through the loft. Releasing his pain with each painful tear that escaped him. He was lit by the afternoon light through the large windows, rays of sun streaming down on him.

And Stiles smiled. Laying on the floor next to Derek, staring out the windows with tears in his eyes. He smiled, despite the pain that surrounded them both.

Because he saw hope on the horizon.

 

.....

 

_Finally_

 

.....

 

Stiles Stilinski died when he was sixteen. Buried next to his mother in Beacon Hills Cemetery, on a cold and dark day in January.

But he passed on one warm summer morning. Standing in the rays of the rising sun, feeling it surround him and complete him.

He had been seventeen years old.

 

......

 

Death followed Derek.

It was a unstoppable force that was seemingly intwined with his life force. It had seeped into his soul and _latched_ on.

Death had been in his life ever since the fire. He knew it was never going to leave him soon.

It was always in his life, and always would be.

...But death was _not_ him.

 

He was not dead. He lived. He breathed. His heart beat in his chest and his body grew with time. He was _alive_.

And, for the first time in a very long time...

 _That was okay_.

He knew it was okay to breathe these breaths. To let his heart beat on, let himself grow and live. Because he hadn't taken it from them. He didn't take their lives....He was living their lives for them instead. Living through their legacy. Their smiles and the laughter, echoing through his mind.

Living where they could not. Because Death had taken them away. Taken them all far before their time, before they could feel everything life had to offer. 

But, it would not take Derek...He wouldn't let it. He couldn't die.  Couldn't let his mind go and his memories disappear into nothing.

Because he _would_  remember them.

Until the final beat of his heart. Until the last shuddering breath leaving his lips. 

He would remember them.


	23. Suicide #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wrote this after watching episode 5x09 of Teen Wolf. 
> 
> I was a bit upset.
> 
> ...Wondering what would happen if Stiles was left all alone.
> 
> WARNING: Suicidal themes from a outsiders P.O.V

He was the boy nobody knew.

He kept to himself and the curly haired boy at his side. Nobody even knew his real name. But he went by Stiles. The Sheriff's boy.

And that was all anyone knew.

......

He sometimes saw Stiles in the halls, head in a book or eyes looking out the window. He didn't know Stiles. They didn't have any classes together.

He was just the person you saw around school, and sometimes smiled at.

If you eyes didn't advert awkwardly first.

......

He saw Stiles at the diner once.

It was summer, and Stiles was sitting with his curly haired friend, with equally curly fries in hand. He was smiling. Bright eyed and teeth showing. It was a sight so see. Because school wasn't really a place Stiles smiled in.

And he'd never seen that much happiness in the boys eyes.

......

He came to school one day after Summer without the curly haired boy at his side.

And he never saw the curly haired boy again. Nobody knew where he went. Or what happened to the curly haired boy.

All he knew was that Stiles was alone.

...... 

He never saw Stiles smile again.

He didn't even look up anymore when they passed each other in the halls 

......

They had a class together now.

As juniors they had Chemistry together. Stiles sat in the back, head always in a novel. He could always see Stiles out the corner of his eye.

And he wondered if Stiles was trying to escape.

..... 

Stiles got told off often.

Mr Harris was the worst. Always picking on him when he knew that he no longer spoke. Stiles stopped speaking a long time ago. He wondered when that happened.

Because nobody noticed.

.....

Stiles looked like ghost in the halls.

Face drawn and skin pale. Cheekbones gaining more shadow by the day. Always with his head down, plaid drawn around him like safety blanket.

And he wondered if he was the only one who noticed that it no longer fit him right.

.....

He'd forgotten what colour Stiles' eyes were.

He never saw them anymore. He was only a flash of red in his peripheral, the swilling of plaid fabric as he darted around school. Quiet as a mouse.

He tried to remember back to when he was the loudest boy in school.

And he wondered where that time had gone.

.....

School was stressful. The constant pressure to keep his GPA high was weighing on him. The SAT's were coming up, and it was on everyone's lips.

Stiles seemed to be doing okay. Doing better than he was, actually. He heard people in the halls muttering about how it wasn't fair that the guy who didn't even speak was getting A's.

But he secretly hoped that Stiles managed to wake up. Wake up from whatever dream he was trying to escape into.

Because he was drifting from life.

And there was only so far you could drift before you lost your tether.

...... 

Prom was next week.

The Juniors were buzzing. Talk of nothing but ties and dresses and corsages. Prom queen posters were littered around the school.

Lydia Martin was sure to win.

She had everything.

And he wondered it it was fair that some people got so much.

When others had so very little.

......

Prom came and past.

He didn't see Stiles there.

He wondered minutely what he was doing on that night. Sitting in his room, or laying on the grass in the park as he'd caught him doing many times before.

It was a cold night. And he, himself, hoped that Stiles would be okay.

Because nobody else seemed to care.

......

Stiles was called up to the office one morning over the PA.

He remembered it because he hadn't heard Stiles name said out loud for months. Nobody thought anything of it, though. It happened all the time.

But then Stiles ran out of the office crying.

It was released over the local news later that night, that Sheriff Stilinski was killed in an robbery arrest.

Leaving his only son, _truly_ , alone.

......

Stiles hardly came to school after that.

Nobody noticed.

He didn't know where Stiles was, or what he did. But he hoped somebody was caring for Stiles.

Because he wasn't able to care for himself.

......

Stiles came to school on the last day of Junior year.

He managed to pass, and was able to become a senior next year despite his drop in attendance.

But he came to school that day. Strange to do so, because if there was any time of the year students took off: It was right at the end.

But there he was. The boy that never attended, at school the day when half of them weren't. He hadn't thought it strange at all. Not as Stiles packed up his locker and gave his books back to the Library.

Just watched Stiles pass by as he always had. No words between them.

And he wondered if they could have been friends.

......

He watched Stiles leave school that day. Throwing his bag into his old baby blue jeep, and climbing in the metal door.

He watched Stiles give a lingering look at the school.

And then watched him and he pulled the car out of the lot. And drove away.

He watched Stiles disappear into the afternoon sun. And he hoped that Stiles and seen something when he looked at the school that made sure he would be coming back next year.

Because he didn't want him to leave.

Not yet.

.......

He never saw Stiles again.

.....

He was just finishing his summer homework with the news running in the background when a breaking news flashed across the screen.

And he looked up at the change in tone of the presenters voice. To see a familiar blue jeep on the screen.

Mangled beyond recognition.

The Jeep had driven off Beacon Hill. Which was more like a cliff.

There were plenty warning sings leading up to it. To turn back. To show danger. And he wondered what mind frame Stiles had been in to not see all the signs.

The presenters said it was a tragic accident. That the poor body mangled beyond recognition had been a young driver. Must have lost control had the most tragic of moments. An _accident_.

But they didn't know Stiles. They didn't watch him like he did. Watch him as the months past him by.

It was no accident.

And they asked for anyone that knew anything about the accident to come forward. For family members to contact the police.

But he knew their phones would not ring.

Because Stiles had been alone.

.....

A single teardrop streams down his pale face,  
a single letter wrapped in lace.  
As he fakes his final smile, who would know that this was the last,  
laughter and excitement fills the hallway, who would know the truth of his past.

His hidden legs covered in scars,  
his pain and hurt kept behind bars.  
Who would guess the lies he was in,  
who would guess the torture he'd seen.

A broken home filled with drama and tears,  
his last pieces of hope eaten by fears.  
He's tired of the misery, tired of his suffering,  
sick of the world from which he has nothing to gain,  
sick of the people that have caused so much pain.

So is this the end? Or is this only the start.  
Is there anyone to heal his breaking heart?  
Waiting for the sun to light up his days,  
Warm his weak body with it's glistening rays.

Will anyone notice before it's too late?  
Is he ready, is this his fate?  
Will he let this all slip away,  
Is there anything left for him to say?

With his glassy eyes and those faraway looks,  
his steady walk and pile of books,  
He walks down the halfway for one last time,  
the bells in his mind have begun to chime.

He'll leave the people that have caused so much pain,  
leave the world that has been so unkind.  
And a single teardrop streams down his pale face,  
but nobody notices as he leaves this place.

-Fern

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Please. If you see anyone like this. Get them help. I just made friends with a boy this year, and he's the most wonderful person I know.
> 
> But, he had been at a stage where it had been really bad. I didn't even know it was happening. Nobody did. He hid it very well.
> 
> He could have gone and I never would have got to know him. He came to my 12th birthday a long time ago, but we drifted apart. I'm glad to know him again. And the person he's become after all that shit he went through.
> 
> I think he's going to be Head Boy next year.
> 
> Life gets better, people.
> 
> And, also. If you feel like you are alone. You are not. There will always be somebody that cares. Wether it be your parents or a friend or a Chaplain. 
> 
> The best people get the worst in life.
> 
> And, if you are going through this stuff...Remember that that makes you the best.
> 
> If you think you are ready to go. Just hold on one more night. And think about it in the morning. Talk about it.
> 
> Somebody will help. All you need is to let them know.
> 
> Don't fade away. Not like he almost did.
> 
> So if you are scrolling through the death tag with thoughts like this.
> 
> Please don't fade away.
> 
> But yeah. I felt ill writing this chapter. Probably because it is relevant to my life.
> 
> I might delete it..


	24. Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome to Beacon Hills!" The boy in front of him yelled, but it wasn't apparently on purpose. He was just all over the place, bouncing on his heels with arms flying in the air in a way that was potentially detrimental to either himself or something around him.
> 
> Scott decided he liked him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As suggested by: lanadelstingray. I hope you see this :)
> 
> Also, Happy Birthday to Dylan O'brien!
> 
> Enjoy this really long chapter.

"Welcome to Beacon Hills!" The boy in front of him yelled, but it wasn't apparently on purpose. He was just all over the place, bouncing on his heels with arms flying in the air in a way that was potentially detrimental to either himself or something around him.

Scott decided he liked him.

He didn't know what to expect arriving in this knew town. It was small, with a little post office and sheriff station. Typical small town America, with white picket fences and smiling families.

It was nice.

Derek hadn't been so sure. Integrating into a new town without being noticed was incredibly hard. But, they needed the change. And fast. Since Scott was his most powerful beta, he was sent first. They would come one after the other, spaced by a few months. Make it look coincidental.

Derek had set up the new house. One of the white picketed fence ones, bordering on the vast forrest. Fitting in without looking suspicious when they suddenly ran into the woods during the night. He was getting some mechanic job, sliding into place in this little town. Scott hoped he'd be okay, cause it was a real big jump from New York.

But things were said and lives were taken.

And it was too much.

A small town where the biggest news was if Dani next door was pregnant...seemed just right. But Scott didn't know what would await him at this new school. It certainly wasn't this boy in front of him. He was wild with movement. Never still, with eyes bright and body fidgeting constantly. Exuberant. Goofy.

....Pure, good intended, _human_.

Scott breathed it in.

"Scott." He said, holding out a hand. The boy smiled, meeting his hand enthusiastically.

"Call me Stiles." The boy - Stiles - said, before rambling. "Yeah. It's a nickname. My real name is autocorrect gone horribly wrong." His smile was contagious.

Scott smiled back.

Stiles turned, whole body spinning floppily, arms pulled along by his body rather than moving with it. Spasmodic, floppy, quirky. So full of energy and _life_. Not a ill-intended bone in his body. No desire to hurt anything, and to just live peacefully. Scott loved it. Had never met somebody like this.

Stiles was so damn pure.

And it just seemed _so_ sad that he was going to die.

 

.......

 

Scott _knew_ what death smelt like.

Knew sickness. Wounds. Knew the point were a wound or illness became fatal.

He met so many people in New York. The city teeming with life and heartbeats. It was just fate that he would meet people in the street whose time was near. Sometimes it was obvious. A cancer patient walking in the park, trying to feel the sun on their skin. That smell so strong it made his eyes water for more than one reason. But others, it was just a sour smell, poisoning them slowly.

He had become numb to it. He'd had to, otherwise his heart would be broken everyday. Especially after he met that little girl, barely five, who looked so fine and happy. Dancing a little happy dance as her mom ordered her ice cream.

But the haemorrhage waiting in her brain was only a week away.

He went home in tears that day. Derek had held him awkwardly, but understanding all the same. It was hard to know when somebody was dying.

But becoming numb was the only way to survive in this cruel world.

Scott had secretly hoped he'd be free from having to feel that, moving to this barely populated part of the earth.

But there Stiles was. The sour tones just bare on the last tinges of his scent. Only evident after it lingered for a moment, his smell condensing enough to become evident. For the approaching death to make itself noticeable.

And it made him so _sad_.

His barriers were down. Because he hadn't expected this, here. He wasn't making himself numb. And he was just hit so hard. Because Stiles was so damn _pure_.

Not weathered by the unforgiving concrete city. By the stresses of city life...but basic. A little town boy, but so bright and lively.

And suddenly it just seemed so unfair.

But Scott swallowed, forcing a smile again as Stiles showed him around the school, pointing out things.

Then the bell went. And Scott had to suck it up. He had a life to live, and a school to graduate from...But, first: a class to get to.

He couldn't linger on the boy, wondering how many sunrises he had left to see.

 

............

 

"How was school?" Derek asked, looking shocking domestic making dinner for them both. The house was empty besides them.

Scott wanted their pack to hurry up and arrive...He couldn't bare the the silence in here.

But he didn't answer Derek, instead dropping his bag to the floor and moving subconsciously towards the kitchen.

Derek turned at his approach, but only seconds before Scott fell into him. Derek caught is limp body easily, but with no short amount of surprise.

"Scott?" Derek asked, uncooked food sitting absent on the bench as Derek looked over his beta. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" He asked, and Scott noticed the fear creeping into his voice.

It hadn't even been a month since they lost their last.

Scott noticed how bad this must be making Derek feel, unknowing if this town was trying to kill them too. So he shook his head, forehead against Derek's shoulder and arms hanging limp from his sides.

"Why won't death leave us alone?" He asked after a moment, and he felt Derek's muscles tense. This had been their escape. To try and get away from death and suffering.

But Derek hadn't expected everything to go smoothly. He'd hoped, but never truly believed that this would be their last stop.

Because he'd been missing his home. And the times where it didn't hurt to look around town, and where memories weren't horrible ones.

But he'd hoped that the light he'd left behind was still running bright. He couldn't forgive himself if that little light in the memories left him too.

"Because we aren't immortal." He said. Nobody was. Not even they, a pack of werewolves, were immortal. Everything that lived, died. They weren't human, but they were still shockingly _mortal_.

They could die just as easily if you knew the right ways.

Scott leant off Derek, instead favouring the counter to lean his weight against. Derek looked at him sympathetically.

"What brought this on?" Derek asked gently, seeing his hesitation. Scott shrugged, not really wanting to say it. Because if he said it out loud: it would become real. _Tangible_ , and not just a trick of his imagination.

...Stiles would really be dying.

But, if there was anyone that knew what he felt, it was Derek.

"My orientation buddy is wonderful. He's so nice and blissfully pure human." Scott said, every word being the upmost truth. His heart clenched slightly at his next words.

"But he's dying." He said, and Derek eyes seemed to sadden, but he said nothing. They should have never expected to never feel the pain of surrounding death again. It was inevitable. Even here, in this tiny town.

That had already seen so much bloodshed all those years ago.

"And it's not fair. He doesn't even know." Scott continued, tears in his eyes. He hated knowing. "He's just living life, being a teenage boy. Smart and funny, sarcastic and strange. And he's a only child, and I know he's lonely."

Scott was rambling. But he couldn't help it. He had to share his knowledge off all the things he never wanted to know....because he knew they were all going to be taken away.

Taken when Stiles was.

"His mom's gone. His dad's sheriff. It's just him and his dad, in a house just like this one. And they've got no more family to fill it. It's just Stiles and his dad, in a empty home that will soon only house one. Because Stiles is going to go too. He's gonna get taken away and-"

Scott cut himself off. Because Derek's face changed from sympathy to his own shocking and sudden sadness. It was so strong that Scott actually winced from the angst that stabbed through Derek. He felt it too, even from this distance.

Like the spray of blood painting his skin, from a bullet wound shot into Derek.

"Stiles? Stiles Stilinski?" Derek asked. Scott realised he didn't even know the boys last name. But he nodded at Derek's question anyway.

Because how many Stiles' could there be in this little town?

"You know him, don't you?" Scott asked as Derek turned to look out the window, hands braced on the sink.

Scott noticed his knuckles whiten and the granite bench top creak under the pressure.

Derek didn't know what to say, until he opened his mouth, and suddenly it all made sense. Everything he was feeling. Old emotions coming alive in his chest in ways he'd forgotten. But, it also brought along the bitterness: feeling all these things again, but knowing it wouldn't last.

Because Stiles was the little seven year old. He was Derek's little light. The bright spot in his memories full of darkness.

...And now he was going away too.

Derek swallowed. Stiles wasn't his to mourn. Not anymore. Stiles probably didn't even remember him. Didn't remember the time in the woods, running together through the trees and discovering little hidden treasures in the dirt. Just two little boys, playing and laughing with only the woods to hear them.

But Derek remembered.

And when he answered, it was with eyes looking into the place he didn't think still existed for him. The place he'd thought had been locked behind closed doors, forever barred. His voice went quiet and forlorn, with a small touch of a frail and precious hope, so small and delicate in his deep voice. He smiled a little, eyes glistening wetly in the afternoon light.

"I never forgot him."

.......

 

Scott and Stiles were instant friends.

It was a symphony of emotion. They were each other's halves. Two parts of the same soul. They made the same jokes, and loved the same things. Everything was so real. So sudden.

It's like they were made to be best friends. Made to meet at this point.

Fate, as it seemed.

But, Scott was not unaware of the fact: that fate was a complete _bitch_.

 

......

 

Scott couldn't find Stiles anywhere.

And it was not normal. Stiles was always easy to find. His presence could be felt by Scott almost anywhere, his laughter echoing through the busy halls.

It was lunchtime. And Stiles hadn't met him at their spot.

So Scott went looking.

His scent was impossible to trace amongst everything else in this school, so Scott was blind in that aspect.

Scott walked into the room, to find a trail of scattered items disappearing around the lockers. Pencils, notebooks, on the ground like they'd been dropped in succession as whomever had them dropped them along their path.

Quiet sobbing echoed hauntingly.

"Stiles?" He asked, walking further into the room that smelled slightly like feet.

The quiet sobs continued.

Scott followed the trail of destruction. He rounded the corner, and he immediately took a step back.

Stiles was there. Curled up in a small ball in a nest of destruction. Scott had to suppress the inhuman growl that threatened to tear from his throat.

Stiles clothes where in disarray. He had a tear in his shirt, exposing the length of his collarbone for the world to see.

And he just looked so _vulnerable_.

It broke Scott's heart.

Scott looked at him fully, eyes snapping to his face...and to the purple bruising flowering on his cheekbone.

Scott was on him in a second. At his side on his knees, pulling him to his chest. Stiles clung to him immediately, hanging on for dear life, fingers curled in the folds of his clothes.

And Scott remembered that there were more demons than just death on this earth.

 

.........

 

Lydia breathed in the fresh, small town air.

She flipped on her sunglasses, closing the sunroof on her car and stepping out a delicate high heeled foot onto the car park. She put a winning smile on her red painted lips, pulling her books out the car with her.

Isaac and Jackson climbed out behind her, looking hot if she said so herself. They made quite the trio. They walked towards the school, and Lydia felt Jackson preen at the attention they got from everyone they passed.

Scott had given the all okay for them to come. No hunter activity in sight. So they decided to all come at once.

Because Lydia hadn't missed the tinge on distress in his voice when he said it was okay. She didn't think he was lying. He wouldn't endanger them like that. Not after all they'd lost.

But she had a feeling that something big was happening in this little town.

And she trusted her instincts to the very last atom.

 

........

 

"Scott!" She called, and the boy turned to see her. A great big smile came across his face. She winced inwardly at seeing the pain behind it. So, she wasn't wrong. There _was_ something in this town.

She gave him a hug, smelling him delicately. She frowned at the off smell, before letting him go to let the wolves greet each other. She cocked her head at Scott, and the boy barely caught her gaze before a curly-blond wolf was on him.

"I missed you!" Isaac smiled, messing up Scott's hair and laughing as he danced away from Scott's passive swipe. Scott pouted as he tried to fix it, both hands in his hair.

"No need for that McCall. Might be a improvement."

"Shut up, Jackson. Nice to see you too."

"As always." Jackson said offhandedly, attention already elsewhere. He winked at a passing group of gagging cheerleaders. Lydia rolled her eyes as one of them squealed. Wait till they found out how much of a asshole he was.

Then again, they probably wouldn't hold his attention for long enough. Lydia he'd been the only one to hold his attention for more than a week. But they were long past that now.

Things like that fell away when your families died around you.

But she turned her steely eyed look to Scott.

"Scott? Care to tell me what is going on?"

Scott's expression immediately dimmed. Lydia stopped, watching him for a moment. Something about his face sparking a familiar feeling inside her. She staggered back, but Isaac was already there. She felt the vision overtake her, creeping inside and seeping into her body. Through her skin and her bones and into her mind.

She'd learned not to fight it.

_Darkness._

_Black veins, crawling up an pale arm._

_Amber eyes reflecting morning sunlight, glistening and sad._

_Scott's sad face, staring into the freshly turned ground. Tears falling down his face._

_A grave stone, it's shadow spreading across the ground with the setting sun._

Lydia's eyes snapped open. She was suddenly grateful for the steading hand above her elbow. She legs felt like they were going to give out beneath her.

"Lydia? What did you see?"

The bell rung shilly cutting through whatever she was about to say. But she _knew_. Scott knew.

Somebody was going to die.

And it was going to _hurt_.

 

......

 

That was when she saw him.

Walking through the halls, with curled shoulders and a frame drowned in oversized shirts. With bright amber eyes cast to the floor, looking at his scuffed converse as he walked with his bag over one shoulder.

Lydia stopped in her tracks with her new group of girl friends, watching him.

Because she could see the shadow following him. The darkness surrounding like a mist, darkening the closer it got it his brain. So, brain disease then.

Those were always the worst.

She smiled sadly, despite the ache in her heart. It hurt so bad to see this. To know _this_. She could only watch as the darkness clung to him, following him as he stumbled down the hall.

She knew his fate...This boy, whom she didn't even know.

Lydia couldn't be like Scott. She couldn't be like the other wolves. She couldn't shut it off. She couldn't stop caring, no matter how many dying people she met. Because this was her power.

This was her curse.

She would stand by as she watched the darkness would grow on him. Take away his light, suck him dry of everything he was. It would grow. Grow and grow like a ugly weed, strangling the life out of everything's that had ever been good.

It was going to _destroy_ this boy.

And it was going to grow until he had become only darkness himself.

She smiled, bitter. Taking one last lingering look before disappearing around the corner, catching up with her friends. She shook her head, trying to banish the Amber eyed boy from her thoughts as she walked away.

But the boy with the bright eyes stayed with her.

And she had a feeling he wouldn't be leaving her soon.

 

......

 

Lydia did her research. Like the good, intelligent school girl she was. But she wasn't looking up anything for her research project.

She was looking up this boy. Stiles.

His name was on everyone's lips in their home. Scott was talking about him all the time. Talking about how lively and wonderful he was. How purely good he was.

Nobody said anything. Nobody said it out loud. But every single one of them knew he was going to die. But Lydia couldn't be satisfied with that. She had to know. Know what demon they faced this time.

It was Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease.

...Incurable.

And was times like this that she hated her power. Because she couldn't help him. She could only _watch_.

Watch the bright eyes turn dull.

And the darkness take him away.

 

......

 

Stiles deserved the best in life. Up until his very last day. He wasn't far, a few months at most. He'd make it into senior year...maybe.

But they were determined to make every last day happy.

...If it was the only thing they could do for him.

Because they couldn't heal him. They couldn't make it better.

So they could try do this.

 

.......

 

"Do you think we could become a story?" Lydia asked out of the blue. They laid on Lydia's bed, staring up at the ceiling as the ending credits of a movie played on her TV in her room. It was really late, and the wolves were asleep.

"Nah. It's all too boring. Besides, who wants to know a story like this?" Stiles said, and she knew he was wide awake...Despite the fact that his disease was weakening him.

She admired his strength, even when he didn't know he was using it.

"Plenty of people, Stiles." She replied. "This is like the ultimate teen novel. The teenagers surrounded by the struggles of HighSchool while dealing with their love issues. It'd be a classic."

Stiles huffed a laugh. Lydia smiled gently.

And she absently wondered how many more laughs she would hear

"Love issues? Maybe some. Not all of us get that luxury. I'd be the comic relief, the plotless dude that runs around not doing much."

"You'd be doing more than you think, Stiles." Lydia said, her eyes looked at him, sad. "Any story with you in it would be the best."

Stiles rolled his eyes next to her. She didn't know how, but she just felt him do it. Or, it might be because, wherever he did anything: he did it with his whole body. Like the goofball he was.

She was going to _miss him_.

"Totally. I'm just _so_ interesting. Girls don't even like me now, let alone in a book."

"You'd be surprised." She said, eyes on him as he looked up at the ceiling.

"What, really?" He said, his eyes swivelling to look at her. She blinked like she hadn't been looking at him this whole time.

"Have you seen the way Jenna looks at you?" She said instead, and was thankful when Stiles rolled with it. She hoped he didn't notice, but she wasn't so sure.

He was good at doing that.

"What. Jenna from chemistry? Nah. We barely talk." He said, thoughtful.

"She's always checking you out, you just don't see it." She answered, looking at him. He frowned.

"Don't see what?"

"A lot of things, Stiles. A lot of things." She said, worrying her lip between her teeth as she looked at the ceiling again. She wanted to cry.

"Well I certainly don't see a book plot coming out of this." He said, as though he was actually thinking about it. She didn't doubt that he was.

"There doesn't have to be a plot. Your life can be a plot. It doesn't have to be planned. You just live, and your life is the story. Pure and honest."

"Yeah, you think so?" he asked. "You think we could be?" She nodded, feeling melancholy as she kept her eyes on the ceiling. She couldn't let him see the moisture in her eyes.

"We all become stories some day"

 

.......

 

It would have been perfect.

This life could have been the ultimatum for Scott. This new beginning could have been his last place to restart. He knew now. Because Stiles was a light that seemed to resonate so strongly with a darkness deep inside him. Healing him inside without even knowing he was doing it. And it would have been the best thing to ever happen in this short but eventful life.

If his good old friend fate hadn't gotten in the way.

Stiles would have been the perfect person to live side by side with, for the rest of his life. His smile, his flailing limbs and running sarcasm.

But soon it was all going to go away.

Because fate was the ultimate _bitch_. Taking. Manipulating and twisting so Scott always loved the fullest, but fell the hardest.

Life was just full of things disappearing on him. Lives leaving this earth, him left behind. Reaching out as everything around him flew away, surging into the air.

But he was the one falling. Everything blurring into a whirlwind of colours flying past him.

.....He wondered how long he could fall until he hit rock bottom.

He was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the pieces to slide together and for every aspect of his life to crash with a almighty explosion.

For everything to blow up in his face. Everything he'd hidden, and the two sides of himself, of death and life: meeting at a screeching crescendo.

He wondered how long it would last.

But for now, he could fall. Fast and frightening now, knowing that the end was approaching. But he'd set himself up for this. The day he'd met Stiles he tipped over the edge.

But he couldn't regret it.....Because then he would be regretting _Stiles_. And that was something Scott would never do.

Even when, ultimately, it was going to destroy him in the end.

Because he knew there was a molten and burning hell waiting beneath rock bottom. And he didn't know if he could ever be ready for that. Because no amount of wisdom or preparation, was going to shield him from the blow of Stiles' death.

There was no armour he could wear against grief.

Because, grief was a hell of its own.

 

.......

 

Scott didn't know when he agreed to a sleepover.

But it was summer. That was something boy did in the summer...right? It just kinda happened. Like a lot of this with Stiles.

And the next thing he knew he was in front of the Stilinski household with Stiles rambling along beside him.

"We have to play at least three hours of FIFA. Watch Star Wars- by the way, I still haven't forgiven you for not watching that yet, it's cinematic history - And eat pizza, curly fries and everything in between." Stiles listed . And Scott just smiled, pulling his bags in through the Stilinski door.

He knew this house back to front now. You'd think he'd grown up with this house his whole life...But Stiles came in like a hurricane, all aspects of his life were suddenly now apart of Scott's.

They been together for only 4 months. But every minute had been so full of life, making up for the sixteen years they'd been apart. It was so sudden and amazing.

And Scott, quite frankly, loved him for it.

Because Scott had been lonely too.

They set up a pillow fort in the living room, Stiles gesticulating about the wonders of Star Wars as they built it, almost hitting it down with his wild swinging arms, as they tried to build the comfy paradise.

They finished and Stiles disappeared into the kitchen to cook and Scott set up the DVD player. They were only going to watch the first Star Wars today. Stiles said they could slowly work their way though them.

One every fortnight. So Scott could truly appreciate and ponder the marvel it was.

But there was eight movies now. That was sixteen weeks.

And Scott hoped with all his heart that Stiles lasted that long.

Because it would just be one of the little things that added a crack to the shattering heart break of Stiles death. Just knowing he'd never been able to have this experience with Scott. Never watched his favourite movies of all time with his best friend.

His first friend.

Stiles would miss out on so much.

And just remembering all the things that he would never see drove a nail into Scott's heart. But he'd promised himself. He couldn't be sad. He couldn't ruin whatever time Stiles had left. Stiles deserved the best.

And Scott would do anything for him to have this.

"Make sure you pick the first one! Don't mix them up or you won't be able to fully understand." Stiles called from the kitchen. Scott smiled a little.

Stiles was so excited.

He was like a little boy. Getting a ice cream from the ice cream truck. Bouncing on his toes.

...just like that little girl in New York.

Scott had to stop what he was doing to suppress the wave of angst that flooded him. Because Stiles was just the same. The happiness before the grief. The joy before the pain.

Scott was just waiting for rock bottom hit them.

Stiles came in then, and Scott fumbled with the case. Trying to ignore the darkness in Stiles' smell. Increasing day by day. He fought of the utter despair, of feeling so damned _weak_. He sat down with his best friend, and watched the opening credits.

Hoping it would make him forget.

 

......

 

The movie finished quite suddenly, the time flying past. But Stiles was already up, switching the Xbox on and putting in FIFA.

Scott didn't miss the wince as Stiles stretched to reach for the controllers, hand flying to touch his forehead. Stiles held his head for a moment, fingers in his hair and he frowned down at the ground quizzically.

And Scott felt so cold.

He watched as Stiles quickly covered it up. Sitting down and chucking Scott a remote. Scott barely caught it.

Because the cold was eating away at him.

"C'mon Scott, not getting tired already? We still need to play FIFA." Stiles teased lightly, pouting a little. Scott blinked like he was waking up.

Scott managed to shove past the cold, gripping the remote. Stiles wanted to play with him. He was going to play. He'd do anything for Stiles, shoving aside his own pain.

Even if it meant he would fall apart inside. _Alone_.

And in silence.

 

......

 

Stiles fell asleep, controller hanging out of his hand limply. Scott looked to the side, drawn out of the game. He took in Stiles, and immediately his wide smile fell.

He didn't bother to act. There was nobody to see his show.

Scott stood, grabbing the controller out of Stiles hand gently. Placing them both away, switching off the machine. The room fell into darkness. No longer illuminated by the game screen.

It was so _quiet_.

Scott wondered if it would be this quiet after Stiles died. The Sheriff all alone in this big empty house. With only the memories to remain, the silence filling every crevice.

Scott hated the silence.

He laid down next to Stiles, being able to see perfectly in the dark. Stiles was on his side, arm laying beside him, fingers curled in the air weakly where the controller had been.

Scott stared into his face. Listening to the beat of his heart and the deep steady breaths of sleep. He looked so normal. So _healthy_.

But Scott knew a different story.

He gently grasped Stiles hand in his own, making sure Stiles wouldn't wake at his touch. When Stiles remained blissfuly oblivious, Scott gently started taking away his pain.

He stared into Stiles sleeping face, feeling the wave of suppressed pain rise to meet him, rushing up Scott arm, instantly flooding him with black ink.

Scott let a silent tear fall down his face.

And he wished, not for the first time, that he could be dying instead.

Anything if it meant Stiles could have more. Could see more. Be more. Stiles deserved life. And Scott was used to death. It was about time it came for him too.

But once again, it just took everyone he loved. Took them away, over and over. But, even in the next life. Even when they met again in a different time and a different place. Even then...

Scott would fall in love with Stiles again. And again. As many lives and millennia passed them. Scott would always find him.

Because Stiles would always be the light that led him home.

 

.......

 

It hurt to watch.

Derek hardly knew Stiles. Not anymore. But he saw that little boy in this young man. In his little flails and bright smiles. It was like time hadn't passed them by. They were both stuck in time, watching the other.

Stiles was still the boy Derek remembered.

But he was so much older now.

Smarter. Brighter... _sicker._

And it hurt.

It hurt like hell.

The was like a dormant ache. Deepening and worsening as Stiles' sickness grew and grew. He couldn't rid it. His mind always went back to it, laying in wait at the back of his brain.

And every time he thought about it. Thought about the time that was approaching...

He felt the ache become unbearable.

So he ran. Ran through the woods. In his human form, not wolf like you'd expect. The wolf made him numb, but he needed to feel it....feel the burn. He _needed_ this. The physical pain.

So he wouldn't feel the emotional heartbreak.

That's what he liked about Beacon Hills. No matter where you are, the woods was never far away. Perfect to escape for just a moment. Escape life and reality.

But being back also hurt. Because everywhere he went, there was memories to follow. The little corner store he used to visit with Laura, aged only seven with candies hanging out his mouth when they left.

Or the grocers. Where his mom used to let him toddle along, and she'd buy him a little sweet. Finger to her lips to not tell his siblings.

It hurt to see these things. But not as much as it hurt to watch Stiles die. Because Stiles was the last living thing from his childhood. The last living memory.

And he was going to die too.

But Derek couldn't even muster the anger towards it. Life has taken so much from him. It wasn't about finding the courage to get up in the morning anymore. Wasn't about hoping for a better path.

He knew there was nothing out there for him. Not anymore. There was no happiness waiting for Derek Hale. It had been swallowed by the dark.

He'd accepted that.

...but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

So he ran. To starve the hurt and the pain....To make it all go away. If just for a moment.

 

Derek slowed down after a moment. Taking a breath, feeling the burn in his legs as he bent over, arms braced on his thighs.

He looked down at the floor. And it was mowed grass...Strange. He looked up, and understood. He had run so far he'd reached the school. He hadn't even noticed.

But you never saw anything other than your path when you were running away from the demons inside.

He decided to go sit down on the bleachers near the Lacrosse field. He should see if his name was still underneath where he'd scratched it in with his sister final year.

He tuned the corner of the school building, feeling nostalgic. In a okay way. The school didn't harbour any bad memories for him....well, only if you didn't count his awful English teacher.

He stooped in his tracks, seeing somebody sitting in the centre of the field. Staring out at the forrest. Dressed in Lacrosse gear, a crosse laid across their knees.

Derek frowned.

He moved closer, purposely standing on a twig so the person would hear him. The figure turned around sharply at the sound. Granting Derek sight to the bright amber eyes and cute upturned nose.

Stiles.

Derek swallowed carefully as he approached.

"Hey there, Stiles." He called, moving closer. Stiles just watched him for a moment. Before he smiled.

"Derek! What are you doing here?" He smiled, and Derek sat down in front of him.

"Just going for a run." He answered, staring at Stiles with soft eyes. "How about you?"

Stiles shrugged, arms flapping with the movement as his legs jiggled. Derek let his lips twitch. Stiles still shrugged with his whole body. He hadn't seen enough of Stiles recently to pick up on the old habits.

"I'm waiting for Lacrosse practise to start."

Derek felt the calm nostalgia fall from beneath him. Black hole opening beneath what had been a façade of happiness.

"Stiles." He said gently. "It's Sunday today." And practice was on Wednesdays.

Stiles looked past Derek, back into the woods. Eyes shining in the setting sun, filtered through the trees and casting them in strips of shadow.

And Derek felt something break inside him, watching the confusion on Stiles face. The fight to remember, before he forgot everything he'd ever known.

Stiles frowned, forehead crinkling.

"Oh."

 

........

 

The hardest thing about watching somebody die is the _knowing_.

Scott was well aware of all the things he didn't want to be. He saw every wince and heard every sharp intake of breath. And he knew exactly what was happening.

Even when Stiles didn't.

He knew. This was the first winds of the storm. Rock bottom appearing out of the abyss. The destination was in sight. And he was just watching himself fall, closer and closer.

Just watching. _Waiting_.

...Useless.

Because all he could do was fall.

And hope he wouldn't be able to feel it when he hit rock bottom.

 

.......

 

Stiles was admitted to hospital the following week. School was just about to go back, too. They'd marked the date on their calendars. With a big red circle

Scott ripped his up in a fit of angst and rage when he found out Stiles wouldn't be coming with them.

But, now all Stiles could do was sit and watch absently as the world crumpled around him. His disease creeping up on him, the doctors words echoing in his mind as he watched everything fall to pieces. The world fragmenting into broken and shattered glass in his vision.

And Scott stood, watching it happen. Watch Stiles struggle to come to terms with oh god I'm going to die.

Even though, he knew, it had been happening for a long while.

Since before he met Stiles. Since before he knew this bright spark even existed...The darkness had already been sucking away at him. He watched the cracks form in the world, watched death creep in.

He'd watched it happen. Slowly, painfully. And everyone knew now. It was out in the open, no stone left unturned. Everyone was devoted to Stiles and the time he had left.

And yet...all Scott could do was watch.

Cast those lingering looks as he moved out the door on his way to school, eyes sweeping over his friends breathing form.

...Wondering if it would be the last time he saw his best friend alive.

 

.....

 

"What do you want Stiles?" Scott sighed angrily. Stiles rapid mood swings were effecting everyone. One minute he would be loving, the next screaming and yelling.

Death _wasn't_ graceful.

Stiles wasn't going to slowly sink to the bottom of a pool, or hold his chest dramatically as he was shot through the lung.

It was ugly and painful. Not romanising here. Just pain ugly and _painful_.

So damn painful.

His personality was always moving. Scott knew it wasn't his fault. But he couldn't deny that it hurt. Stiles words and his own, the stress of their close proximity as well as Stiles rapidly deteriorating mind. It just added to the fact that in a few weeks Stiles wouldn't be with them anymore.

But, once he uttered the question...he regretted every syllable that left his mouth. There should be a rule that you never ask a dying person what they want.

Because there was so many things they couldn't have.

"Me?" Stiles said, voice so bitter it made something curl up inside of Scott. "I want to run and jump. Go to school and see my friends. I want to drive my car. I want the freedoms to be able to leave this room. This room that already feels like death."

He sighed, breath chattering, like it always did after he cried. Stiles looked out into the night sky, anger falling away once again.

"But I can't." He said quietly, and Scott noticed the tears in his eyes. "Instead, I sit in here, hoping that today won't be the day I die"

 

.....

 

Derek visited Stiles every day. He didn't really know why. But, he thought, that maybe it was an obligation to every person he never got the chance to say goodbye to. To spend these hours that he never had with his family. Like a retribution of a sort. A chance to make amends.

...Like fate would ever give him the chance.

But, he couldn't fool himself into thinking it wasn't simply about Stiles.

The boy that was all angles and elbows, with a bright grin always on his face. The boy from his memories, for a time where everything was _happy_. When life was innocent to the harsh realities of the world. When life was _good._

But, fate took what it wished. And now it was going to take away Stiles...That last strand of happiness that Derek ever had. It took his parents. His brothers. His auntie. His cousins. His sister. His uncle.

It took everyone.

...And Derek guessed he was just waiting for it to take him too.

 

......

 

Scott and Stiles were both squished between the metal railing of Stiles hospital bed, pressed tight against each other from thigh to shoulder. Scott had his hands tangled with Stiles, holding onto him.

Because he was afraid Stiles was going to slip away.

Stiles stirred, and Scott watched him wake with tired eyes. He'd been shaking, just little tremors that told of unsealed wounds. Of scars running through his heart, a desperate and quick attempt to heal what had been lost. But there was a missing part his his heart that his mom took with her.

And Scott wondered idly if he'd ever heal from Stiles death.

Scott wasn't just going to giving a chunk of his heart when Stiles past. Stiles was going to rip the whole fucking thing from his chest.

Scott hoped so. Because then he won't have to feel the pain of its absence.

"Tell me a story." Stiles mumbled, sleep dazed as the last trendils of pain dispersed.

Stiles didn't even notice its absence. It was both beneficial and stomach-churning . Because Scott could do this without Stiles knowing.

Because Stiles didn't notice. Old Stiles would have jumped on it. Torn it to pieces with his innocent and excited curiosity.

But, now he just laid there; like life wasn't holding onto him as tight today.

Scott rubbed his thumb over the back of Stiles' hand as though it would stop the memories and hallucinations his brains was tormenting him with. He tried, so hard, like with everything in life.

But he couldn't fix Stiles.

So...he'd just have to tell him a story instead. Scott was aware of the time Stiles had left. The time he had left with Stiles. He could smell it, hear it. And feel it in his bones.

And he felt like he owed Stiles the truth.

Even if he wasn't man enough to tell him it straight. The words "I'm a werewolf" just couldn't push past his lips. He'd tried. A lot. Especially on the nights were Stiles heart fluttered like it was giving out.

It never did. Stiles pulled through.

But Scott just held him as he slept, crying into his hair and praying to god that he wasn't going to take Stiles yet...He would just feel better knowing the words were out of his mouth and out of his head.

Because soon there would only be deaf ears to hear them.

"There once was a boy. A ordinary boy." Scott began, Stiles settling back against the warmth Scott provided, trying to warm the death settling into his bones.

"His father left his mom, so it was just them. They were happy. They didn't need anyone else...until they did."

"Because this boy had asthma. Severe and life threatening. And he'd been a stupid teenage boy, trying to impress a girl. A beautiful girl. With dark curls and bright eyes, she-." Scott breathed, heart aching for that time where life was so simple....And the people he loved were not dead or dying.

"He wanted to prove his worth. But it didn't work as he expected. Well, hoped. Because this boy didn't expect anything. He was a bit of a loner."

Scott wanted to laugh bitterly then. Because they all had been lonely. Now they were just lonely together.

"But he'd run back into class to get something she'd forgotten. He went as fast as he could, wanting to get back to her because otherwise he'd miss his chance. He only made it through the classroom door when he collapsed."

Stiles was falling asleep. But Scott continued.

Because asleep ears were still better than dead ones.

"He was dying. Vision fogging. Then his physical education teacher walked in, and the boy had pondered about how he knew where he was."

"Until the boy knew too. He understood the whole world. Because his teacher was special, and had made him special. Opened his eyes to the real world." Scott breathed in heavily.

"Where the supernatural exists."

The room echoed with its silence.

"His mom never found out though. He never told her. They lived together, with the boys eyes open to the world and hers closed. He kept it that way, because he...he didn't want her to get hurt."

"He had a new family too. Extended pass legality and it was cemented in his heart. And his family grew and grew, living separate lives but still so intertwined."

"...Then the bad guys came to take it all away."

Scott remembered his moms bouncing dark curls. The last time he saw them.

Soaked with blood.

"Their leader, the physical education teacher - but known by many other names - had to take them away. And then they were a family by law, but it didn't matter to them. They had already been family for a long time. It was just better when the boy had others going through the same things along side him."

"They moved around the country, finding residence within the masses of New York. Hiding away from the bad guys that wanted the ones that escaped. Wanted them."

"But they were found. And they needed to move fast."

"The boy was sad, but hopeful. Because he was tired of running from death."

"...But." Scott breathed, squeezing Stiles' hand. "Death has a way of coming back. No matter the form."

"But he was happy. With a new life along side his family. He knew the inevitable. But he was _selfish_. And he didn't want the happiness to go away. He didn't want this death to be one of blood and pain. He wanted just one person he loved not to go that way."

"He loved his best friend. And he still does. But now he just sits and waits, waits for death to come again." He said, voice aching with the pain stabbing in his heart. His throat ached at the stress of holding back his tears, voice echoing in the dark room. His and Stiles' forms seen only by the dark, empty moon.

"Only this time" Scott said, quiet and staring into the departed moon. "He hopes death will take him with it."

 

......

 

Lydia watched Stiles look at himself in the mirror. They tied to keep him away from it, but he was always looking.

At the layers upon layers that did nothing to warm the chill that had settled in his bones.

"Layering is in right now." She said brightly, her hands holding him just above his elbows, looking over his shoulder. His balance was almost non-existent. But, he refused to stay in bed...even though he should.

So she held him...and dreaded the moment she would have to let go.

Stiles nodded absently at her words, still looking at himself. He attempted his own quirk of the lips. It didn't work. Because she knew, with gut wrenching certainty.... that Stiles _knew_ he was going to die.

She could see it in his eyes. The sun cast his face in a side profile, with his one eye that remained in the sunlight shining so bright and harsh. Like a torchlight switching on in the dark of night, stunning and blinding. Burning through Lydia's own eyes and straight into her bones.

She had known, she'd known for a long time. But, seeing that knowledge in Stiles eyes just made it so much more real.

...And Lydia had never hated knowing anything more than this.

Knowing death had always hurt her in more ways than anyone could ever understand. And she thought she had it bad, watching everyone around her die, listening to their lasts breaths and struggling hearts. But...that didn't compare to the pain of actually dying.

Because Stiles was dying. And he knew it just as well as she did.

But, the pain inside his eyes showed Lydia once again; that she didn't know everything.

She didn't know the pain of death. With all the words she couldn't say, just couldn't, because she could never understand. Nobody could. Everyone that could have ever done anything was already dead.

She didn't know what it felt like.

And times times like this, watching Stiles assess the damage of his terminal illness...

...she just _wished_ she did.

 

........

 

"Would you like some water Stiles?" Scott asked. He was sitting at Stiles' side where he had been the past few weeks, almost never leaving, only when he was forced to attend to himself or school. He barely went to school.

Because he'd just watch the seconds tick by wondering if one of them had been Stiles last. The worry almost tore him apart. But, during the weeks everyone had been coming and going - only the Sheriff, Derek and Scott stayed.

Now everyone was here...since this was the week Stiles was expected to die in.

He was so small, so weak. His brain was eating away itself, and he was barely lucid at the best of times. His was just... _withering away_.

Jackson and Isaac were sitting in the corner, heads bowed together in conversation as they watched and waited...along with everyone else. Lydia stood at the end of Stiles' bed, watching over him. Waiting.

Waiting for the harsh blow and the almighty scream.

Derek was leaning against the window frame, his head bowed- as if asleep- not allowing anyone to see his expression.

The Sheriff was just outside the door, talking to a doctor. Lydia's constant sobs were silent and the only sound to be heard was the constant beep of the machine monitoring Stiles heart beat...monitoring his life.

To others It would of been annoying but to them the constant beeps where reminding them that Stiles was still alive.

But the time would come where it would stop beeping.

"No thank you Scott" Stiles said faintly. His voice was slowly fading...Along with everything else that was Stiles. He winced in pain as he lifted his boney hand to his abdomen and rested it, looking up. He flashed a knowing smile at the ceiling, all teeth and bitter humour.

The time was upon them.

"I'm sorry that we never got to finish watching Star Wars, Scott" Stiles said, barely intelligible through the thickness in his unused voice, turning to look at his best friend intently. Scott recognised the tone in his voice.

"I'm sorry I couldn't give you time." He whispered, voice thick and sore from tears. Stiles just smiled warmly at him.

It didn't fight the cold that settled Scott's heart.

"You can't give me everything" Stiles was still smiling as he looked towards Lydia.

"Look after yourself when I'm gone" He said. Lydia nodded while trying her best to not break down.

She wanted to cry. To shriek as she broke everything around her. She wanted to scream at the sheer _unfairness_ of it all.

But her screams would have to wait.

"Be yourself, don't hide from everyone -I always liked the true you the best". Stiles smiled at her one last time before he turned his frail head towards the people sitting on the sparse plastic chairs.

Why did they make those things anyway? They knew people would sit in them for hours, waiting for news. They made them so uncomfortable. Stiles remembered clearly from his time sitting in them as a child. Painful after long hours of waiting for something.

As if the people in them wouldn't feel enough pain as it was.

"Thank you for being here and being apart of my life when you didn't have too" he said to Jackson and Isaac. Isaac smiled warmly, pain in his eyes. Jackson looked away, preferring to look out into the setting sun: than at the boy that was going to die.

He'd seen enough death.

Stiles turned from them to look at Derek

"I'm sorry I couldn't stay." Stiles said - because he knew that Derek wasn't asleep. Derek's heart throbbed painfully. Because Stiles was apologising for leaving. For not being the boy Derek had always imagined him being. For not sticking around so they could share memories.

He was apologising for all the years that they would never get back.

"I'm sorry too." He said while turning his eyes to Stiles. His eyes held many emotions which only Stiles could tell between: anger, disappointment and...sadness. Stiles gave a small smile to him, sending the unspoken message.

Derek knew that Stiles could see right through him, and in some aspects it frightened him. That this boy knew him so deeply. Despite all the years they'd been apart.

But Stiles had been there from the beginning.

Derek should have never doubted him.

Now at least... he didn't feel so lonely. Stiles made him feel old emotions. Make him remember the good things about this place. Stiles had brought light and happiness into his life, showing him a light in the dark. The good amongst the bad.

...Like only Stiles could.

"Tell dad that-"

His voice died suddenly, and he looked confused for a moment before he managed to remember where he was and what he was doing. Derek watched silently, watching him scrabble to come back to reality and not fall into the black abyss.

Because Stiles wanted to remember who they were in his last moments

"Tell him...I _love_ him. And that I..I...that I always will" he said to Scott after a few minutes, voice small and breaking...showing the struggle it took to think and say those few words.

He had to put all his effort into speaking.

And maybe if he hadn't been so focused on making sure he would be lucid in his last moments...me aye he might have lived a little longer. But they would have never suggested it.

Because goodbyes were important to Stiles.

Scott nodded silently at the word he managed to say, showing he understood.

Stiles took a deep breath. He looked towards the ceiling to collect himself. To collect his thoughts and mind, breathing a sigh of relief as he released his fight to speak. He was glad he was lucid and relatively sane, this way he could say goodbye properly. He could feel death, reaching out to him and caressing his face.

He didn't want to die, who would?

But it had been chosen for him.

For some reason God needed him, and he had to accept that.

He could feel it closing in, darkness began clouding his vision. He accepted it all. His only regret was that he had to leave his dad and friends behind, but now they could live the lives they wanted. Just without him in it.

Stiles moved his eyes to the window, looking up at the bright blue sky.

 _I'm coming, Mom_.

Tears slipped from his eyes and rolled onto his cheeks, reflecting the afternoon sun. It was the end of the day. People were going home, going home to families. Wife's, husbands, children, fathers..mothers. And so was Stiles.

Stiles was going home. He didn't want to, not yet. He wanted to stay. Wanted to live.

But at least he could leave this world knowing he was loved.

 

......

 

_Life asked Death:_

_"Why do people love me, but hate you?"_

_Death responded:_

_"Because you are a beautiful lie. And I'm the painful truth."_

........

 

"Stiles will die over and over again for the rest of my life. Because grief is forever. It doesn't go away, the pain might, but the grief doesn't. It becomes every part of you, every breath you breathe and step you take. A tainted part of you which will never heal."

Each word felt like acid, eating at Scott. Death so fresh and raw that he couldn't help but cry, the speech in his hands trembling as he shook.

Standing over his best friends coffin.

"I will never stop grieving Stiles, because I will never stop loving him. That's just how it is."

"Grief and love are one and the same. Conjoined. And as I've come to realise, that you can't have one without the other. With love comes death, it's just apart of life."

"All I can do is love him, love the world, emulate him by living. Living the way he way he would have, should he have gotten this time that I now take for granted. He would not want me to grieve, but I cannot grant him that. Because that would mean I would stop loving him."

"And I cannot stop loving Stiles, just as I cannot ever forget him. So, instead. I will live for him. Through every breath and every step, I will share it with him. Split myself down the middle, so, when the day comes that I see him again, I will have all this life to share. Life that he will miss."

"He deserved the best in life, but he got the worst. I hope one day I will come to terms with that, but I don't not think that day will come. I cannot forgive this world for taking him, but I will live in it for him."

"I will miss him in every waking moment, every god damned second I live on this earth, but I cannot leave it. Not until I've lived to the capacity that he had deserved for himself."

"I will breathe every breath, and take every step. If not for myself, but for him. I will carry him with me through my entire life. He will be apart of me, a abundance of memories in my brain and with love lodged safely in my heart."

"The pain may leave me soon. And my tears will dry. But my grief will remain. And that is okay. It will hurt every time I remember him, but it will be okay."

"Because what matters is the time we had, no matter how short. What matters is that Stiles lived. Breathed. Cried. Smiled. Laughed"

"We can not forget that. Because we can not forget him." He swallowed away the stab of fresh tears, before smiling sadly. Looking into the sun.

"As that would be the greatest loss this world would ever see."

 

....

 

Lydia laid in bed.

Staring up at the ceiling.

Because if she looked at anything else, she just might break. Her mind was barely hanging on, and she felt like even the slightest change of scenery she might shatter.

And besides. If she looked at anywhere else...she would see Stiles.

Laying next to her on this bed. Sitting on her floor, watching TV. At her vanity, making pouty faces in the mirror. Or just standing there in her doorway, like had had the first time he came here.

He'd been in this room more times that she could count. And if she had been a wolf, his scent would be everywhere.

Like he wasn't even gone.

She saw him in everything. In her peach lipstick he tied on for shits and giggles. In her comforter, which he hogged and curled up in when they had a sleep over.

She felt at her side, trying to grasp at her comforter like it could give some sort of reality, some sort of comfort. But, her comforter didn't live up to its name.

Lydia stared at the ceiling intently, to keep her thoughts as she stared, Ignoring the world with her red hair spread around her.

_"It's not red, it's strawberry blonde"_

Lydia lurched like she'd been stabbed, arching on her bed. Pain so strong in her heart.

She leapt of the bed, landing in a crumpled lump on the floor. She curled up then, head pressed against the carpet as though it could muffle the pain somehow.

But this pain wasn't physical.

She needed somebody's comfort. Somebody that both understood, but didn't. Somebody that knew so much, and yet didn't always share. Somebody that knew what she was going through, in its most bare and pure of forms.

Only Stiles could have comforted her now.

But, he was the reason for her pain. Not intentionally. She knew he would _never_ hurt her like this on purpose.

...But sometimes fate just took that choice out of your hands.

She wanted to cry. But the tears wouldn't come. She didn't know why. This pain was punishment enough. The darkness that had overtaken Stiles was effecting her, drawing her into the black hole it had created from Stiles' death. Because the darkness no longer had Stiles life to feed on.

She was slowly loosing her grip on the world. And the black hole was slowly sucking her in. Because she couldn't shut it off. Couldn't pretend this didn't hurt like hell. Because it did.

Stiles had always been a means to a end....ever since she met him.

But, God, it had been a journey. And journey she'd never forget. It hurt so bad to remember him, his death so fresh and painful. But she could never forget their time together.

Every life was journey.

...And all journeys have to end someday.

Even if Stiles journey was cut off far before his time. It was still an adventure. She'd seen so much, contained in just one person. She'd seen a whole world in his eyes.

And his vision still stayed with her.

She clutched it close, knuckles whitening and fingers in claws. She couldn't let it go. Because it was Stiles. It was everything about him. His laughter, deep and full of fun. His smiles, that just managed to complete light up his face, despite the darkness festering in his brain. And his eyes. Those eyes.

The bright amber that had captivated her. Brown most of the time, but so light and like gold in the light.

...Just like they had been the moment he died.

Lydia's body shook, like it would if she had been sobbing. Just the thought of that memory hurt. Her screams had torn out of her throat, leaving a line of fire up her oesophagus. Raw and sudden, bursting from her and ripping her apart in its wake.

Then she'd come to, what felt like eons later.

And Stiles' body was just lying there.

The darkness had left with his soul. So Lydia saw him for the first time without that darkness. Void of both darkness and light.

Just _empty_.

Empty heart, that not longer beat. Empty smile, now without any life that made it so stunning on his face...Empty eyes staring into the sun.

She didn't remember anything after that.

Lydia shakily stood, trying to throw her thoughts with movement. She couldn't stay still anymore...Because then the darkness would swallow her.

She climbed over to her vanity, hauling herself up into the seat. And she looked before she even realised what she did. Too preoccupied with keeping her mind side tracked than actually looking at what she was doing.

There was a picture of Stiles. A little tiara on his head with his arm wrapped around Lydia, a goofy smile on his face

...Homecoming.

And she'd let him wear her Homecoming Queen tiara.

She stared at the picture stuck to her mirror. Taking in every angle of his face and curve of his smile. She stared into his eyes. Looking at her through the lens like he knew at the time that she'd be looking at the image.

"He didn't even graduate." Lydia realised. None of them had. She'd been so caught up in her grief that she didn't even realise this important monument approaching.

" _He didn't graduate_." He didn't. He didn't get to get up on the fucking stage and say that he'd done it. He didn't get to through his cap in the air, screaming with joy because _they'd finally made it._

Lydia felt the tears in her throat thicken.

Thicken until it pressed against her airways. Blocking every breath. She gripped the vanity table, staring into Stiles' eyes.

She felt it. Feeling so wrong in her, like a tiger trying to claw its way out of her throat. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to breathe and stay sane.

It didn't work.

She felt the black hole grab hold of her, solid and firm over her chest, dragging her in. Lydia shook, head down and knuckles whitening with her grip on the table.

She clenched her jaw, hissing breaths through her teeth.

She tried to breathe, fighting against the darkness trying to take her. She fought. Because her fight was the only thing she had left.

She struggled, her vision going hazy around the edges as the breaths never came. Couldn't breathe couldn't think couldn't-

Lydia felt something _snap_.

Her head snapped up, staring at herself in the vanity.

Then she _screamed_.

...And her mirror shattered with her.

 

......

 

"Genim?" Derek asked bitterly. "What kind of name is that?"

But nobody answered.

It was near four in the morning. But Derek just couldn't sleep. He couldn't even go home, for the lords sake. So here he was. In the place that seemed to haunt him no matter where he was in the world.

Beacon Hills Cemetery.

And he stood in the same Cemetery. The same freaking Cemetery where he had cried his hardest all those years ago. Eleven coffins all laid out in a row. With only three left to mourn over them.

Now they were dead too.

Everyone was _fucking dead._

Even little Stiles Stilinski. The little seven year old from his memories, all smiles and nostalgia. The one that was supposed to be forever. That Derek could think back on, knowing that at least someone in life had made it out okay. That somebody, somewhere, was going to be okay. Going to be safe. Going to be _happy_.

But fate tore away at him too. Tore at him until he was gone. He was _gone_. Another coffin. Another gravestone at his feet.

And now Derek didn't know how to begin again.

After every death he has felt, you would think he learned how to live again. But each time it came, it just got harder and harder to get up.

And Derek just didn't see the point anymore.

Why should be get up if he was only going to be torn down? Why did he bother fighting when it was all for naught? When he got up again: Fate was going to come and take his new pack too. His new life.

But, now...he couldn't even think about that. It was too much.

Because how did you live a new life where your past, your foundation to life, was turned to ash beneath you?

He didn't know how to get up. There was nothing to stand on. Nothing to help him climb back up. He was all alone, looking up at the life he could be having. Hovering, suspended above him. Just out of reach.

But Derek couldn't. He couldn't get up again. Not anymore.

Because the boy he never forgot:

...Had now forgotten him.

 

......

 

_"I like to think that nothing's final, and that everyone gets to be together even when it looks like they don't. That it all works out, even when all evidence seems to say something else."_

_"I like to think that you and I will always be young in the woods, and that I'll see you sometime again. Even if it's not with any kind of eyes I know or understand."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I cried about four times writing this...It took ages to write. 
> 
> Your other ideas are being writen, but this one stuck a cord. Hence, 11,000 words.
> 
> Thankyou for reading and for your support. It's because of your reviews that chapter like this happen!
> 
> It's currently 12:38am where I'm living on the 27th of August...I have school tomorrow. But I wanted this chapter to count as a Birthday gift thingo.
> 
> Anyways. Sleep time.
> 
> Byeee :)


	25. Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles had always been afraid of Derek.
> 
> He'd gotten closer to the man. He was a ally to them now, so different from the confrontation in the woods all those months ago. When Derek had been the monster.
> 
> But he had never forgotten his fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> G'day.
> 
> I'm so sorry for this. It's a little different, but I hope it's good. More chapters currently being writen.
> 
> On y va!!!

Stiles had always been afraid of Derek.

He'd gotten closer to the man. He was a ally to them now, so different from the confrontation in the woods all those months ago. When Derek had been the monster.

But he had never forgotten his fear.

People could say he was being mean. Could say he was judgemental, falling for the stereotype that Derek was the epitome of. He knew Derek wasn't his stereotype. But that didn't stop the fear.

And he was learning that in this world; fear was what kept you alive.

His fear was healthy. He knew it was. Because Derek may just look your typical thug in a leather jacket. But he wasn't.

He was a werewolf. Who, at the slightest touch could break Stiles' bones. Stiles remembered that every time he saw him. Remembered that Derek was on a completely different level to him.

But he knew Derek wasn't a monster, just an asshole. He knew he wouldn't hurt him without reason. But, he had a thin patience. Plus...Stiles had always been dancing on the edge of just about everyones patience.

And, if he tripped over that edge: Derek might just kill him.

Because his strength was his biggest and most deadliest weapon. The strength of his jaw, of his claws...of his muscles.

He was a predator.

Superior.

And Stiles was 147 pounds of fragile skin and bone.

He was _nothing_. Not when Derek got angry. And even if he always seemed to get on Derek's bad side, Stiles tried his hardest not to reach that point. For both of them.

Stiles, for obvious reason. But for Derek...

Because after the red faded from Derek's vision, Stiles knew he would have to face the damage left behind. He'd wake up to find out what he'd done.

Stiles just tried to make sure it wouldn't be his broken body for Derek to find in the morning.

.......

 Stiles woke to the familiar sound of his window clicking open. He sat up immediately, covers pooling at his waist as Derek Hale stepped into his room.

There was always something peculiar about seeing Derek Hale in his room. He just didn't fit in with the mundane simplicity of a teenage boys bedroom. With homework on the table, clothes scattered and textbooks laying open everywhere.

But maybe that was just because Stiles was focusing on the fact that there was a _werewolf_ in his room.

It didn't sound so shocking anymore. But when you really thought about it....Werewolves. Are. Real.

What was his life anymore?

But, anyway. Back to the brooding werewolf in his room at 4 am.

"Derek?" He questions, not moving from his spot. Derek had been in his room a few times, but that was at fairly reasonable times.

Not at four in the freaking morning.

"We have a problem." Derek said, growly as always. And Stiles just sighed. Of course there's a freaking problem. Just as Stiles was starting to enjoy this lull in the supernatural nasties.

Stiles just stood, slipping out of his covers and into the frigid air.

His skin immediately pebbled, and he wanted nothing more than to dive straight back into his covers and tell Derek to come back in the morning.

Stiles turned away from Derek, making sure to keep himself covered. He was wearing only his sleep pants.

The red and scabbing Nogitsune scar across his torso was no something he liked to show. Stiles walked towards his closet to pull on a top. Derek followed with no short amount of agitation.

"Hurry up, we need to go." Derek growled, Stiles just turned to stare at him, top in hand and skin still open to the chilly air.

"Are you serious? We need to research this first, not go running off like idiots without a plan." Stiles asked incredulously. Derek just stared back, eyes narrowing.

"Nope. Nup. You can't go alpha on me. There's a reason I've survived so long, and it's because I always research before I do anything stupid."

Derek couldn't help as his eyes strayed down to the puckered scar across Stiles' lean torso. Stiles huffed, turning away to lift his shirt over his arms. Derek's hand on his arm stopped him.

"What do you want now?" Stiles asked, but Derek wasn't looking at him. His eyes were still glued to the scar marring his soft underbelly.

"You can't plan for everything." Derek said, Stiles curled his lip at him, shoving at Derek's grip on his elbow.

"But we can't be idiotic either." He huffed, pulling the shirt over his head. But then Derek's quiet voice had to barge in.

"You are one to talk."

"Oh, God Derek. You're the idiot. You are the one that runs off on your own." Stiles hissed, pushing past Derek to go back into his room.

"At least I get things done." Derek answered, following him.

"No." Stiles said, rounding on Derek as they stood in the middle of his room. "You don't. You get hurt. And you get others hurt."

It was quiet for a moment, and Stiles was glad that it was Friday (or Saturday now?) and that his dad wouldn't be home until late morning.

"You hurt people too" Derek answered then, and Stiles felt all of his self hatred slam into his heart. He did not need _Derek_ telling him it too.

"No. You do not get to say that to me. You do not get to put that on me, Derek James Hale." Stiles yelled. "That was not my choice. You chose to let others get hurt. You chose to let your pack die."

Stiles was up against the wall in a second. Stiles anger still raged despite his jump in fear. Derek pinned him hard, and Stiles felt the solid wall grind on his rib and hip bones.

"You don't know what it's like! You are only a pitiful _human_." Derek spat in his face, Stiles hissed back at him. Derek continued. "You don't know what it's like to lead a pack, or to be in a pack!"

"Fuck you, Derek!" Stiles screamed, fighting against Derek. Derek held him against the wall, hands fisted in his shirt pushing into Stiles with his forearms and body weight. "Fuck you and your pack. I don't give a shit anymore. You wake me up in the god forsaken hours of the morning, and then you say this shit to me."

Suddenly Derek's hands were around his throat. The spike of fear was a knife through Stiles at feeling that warmth around his throat. But Derek didn't _own_ him. He wasn't a toy to be played with

"You _will_ help me, Stiles." Derek growled.

"You can't make me, Derek." Stiles hissed through clenched teeth, a spiteful grin on his face.

Derek howled out in rage, eyes bleeding red as his hands tightened around Stiles neck.

Derek felt a twinge as he pushed away from Stiles. The boy finally doctile, leaning back against the wall: out of fear or shock Derek couldn't care less

He growled, having had enough of him as he felt Stiles slump against wall as he turned away. He gripped his own jaw in frustration. He seethed in anger for a moment: But, then he noticed the silence.

Usually Stiles was complaining. Usually he was breathing hard.

...Usually his heart was beating.

Derek turned slowly. So very _slowly_. Slower than a human. Slower than a ant. Standing in a room with nothing but the silence.  And Stiles was just laying there. Legs against his chest, curled over with his head hanging limp. 

And then Derek had never moved faster. 

His anger was gone with the slice of shock going through him. And his anger was anchor. The only thing he could count on. And yet it had never left him so fast. 

He was kneeling between Stiles feet, gently moving his hands to gently touch the edge of Stiles' jaw. The slightest caress, like he was afraid of something. But he should have never been afraid. Not of Stiles.

Stiles was the one that should be afraid of him.

"Stiles?" He asked. But it came out as a whisper. He held Stiles' jaw with a firmer grip, jawbone in his palm and fingers curled against his cheek.

"Stiles?" He asked again, voice a little braver and stronger in the silence. Stiles didn't answer.

Derek breathed.

He lifted Stiles head, gently. More gentle then he has even been with Stiles.

And Stiles' blank eyes stared back at him.

Derek reeled back, and Stiles' head fell back against the wall with a soft thump. Like there was nothing holding it up. Like the muscles were worthless.

...And the bones were broken.

Then Derek is not breathing. He's just sitting there, Stiles blank and accusing eyes staring back at him. Empty. Confused.

And that's when Derek realised that he broke Stiles' neck.

That little twinge beneath his palm had been the snap of Stiles' vertebrae. Had been Stiles fragile bones crunching under his hands, his spinal cord giving way. Killing his brain function and leaving his body to die.

...Stiles _died_.

Derek always knew that Stiles would get hurt. Always knew he might end up permanently broken. But what he didn't expect was for the boy to die right in front of him....And by his hands.

Then: Derek was _angry_.

Because, how dare he? How dare Stiles just go like that? Stiles had managed to pull through when all odds stacked against them out in this horrible world... How dare he go right here? Right now?

_How dare he?!?_

Stiles wasn't allowed to die here. And not by Derek's hands.

Not again.

So then he was grabbing Stiles, chest to chest with his hands in the boys hair. He growled into his ear, whispering profanities. Threatening. Cursing.

"Stiles, idiot. You need to get up. You need to keep fighting: for Scott...for your dad!"

"Fucking hell. You are so selfish. Why won't you stand up? You stupid asshole. Pathetic. Weakling."

And then Derek stopped.

Because Stiles was none of those things.

He was snarky, but he was so damn kind. He was intelligent, he wasn't stupid. He wasn't an asshole. Derek had no right to call him those things.

Especially when he couldn't fight back.

"God, Stiles." He whispered, hands moving from their harsh grip to cradling the back of his head. Like somebody whom loved him would have done when they kissed him.

Derek froze. And he felt the weight of Stiles in his arms. Heavy. Listless. Lifeless. Held up only by Derek.

Stiles would never have somebody love him.

He would never know what it felt like to be held by somebody who loved you. To hold you tight. To whisper sweet nothings in your ear. To kiss you. To _love_ you.

And even Derek had that, even if it was for the shortest amount time. He'd had that, felt that. And Derek was iconic for not having anything.

Now Stiles had even less.

...Because Derek had taken it from him.

Derek felt a icy shudder run through him. His veins turning to ice and his lungs freezing solid. It settled in the pit of his stomach and in the deepest parts of his heart.

And he felt so heavy...so _cold_.

He'd hated warmth. Hated _fire_. Fire had haunted him, day in and day out. He hated it, with a burning boiling hatred....But now he couldn't feel anything but the freezing cold.

And it was worse. God, it was _so_ much worse.

Because it wasn't fleeting like fire, burning through and leaving behind the damage. It settled deep within him, festering and destroying. Turning his heart black with frostbite, eating away at his insides.

Stiles Stilinski was dead.

And that fact sunk like a rock into his very core.

He could say that Stiles didn't deserve this. That he didn't deserve to die. Could lament about this tragic accident that took such a young and bright soul.

But he couldn't even think about that. Couldn't think about the life he had just taken, the flame he'd snuffed out. All he could think about was how this was going to kill him inside.

Because he was selfish to his very core.

He selfishly took Paige's life because he wanted her forever. He selfishly let Kate into his life because he wanted to feel warm inside. He selfishly let his whole family burn because of a fleeting childhood crush.

Now, he'd killed Stiles'...and once again, he could only think of himself.

He'd taken another life.

And he could only think about the cold inside him. The rock in his gut and the ice in his heart. He could only think about himself. About how this was going to stay with him forever, going to fester inside him for the rest of his life.

Because he'd taken Stiles' life.

He took it.

If he took it, shouldn't he be able to give it back? It's not his. He didn't want it. He didn't want Stiles' life.

He wanted to give it back.

"Come on, Stiles." He uttered, now holding the boy like you would a small child. Body in his lap and head resting against his chest. Stiles folded willingly into his hold.

"You can have it back now." He coaxed, hands moving in a steady and repetitive caress through his short hair. Hands carding through the brown shining locks from forehead to the nape of his neck. Again, and again.

"I didn't mean to." He said, and he didn't have the mind to notice that he sounded like a child. He didn't notice much other than the weight in his lap.

"I'm sorry." He said then, because Stiles wasn't listening. He was just laying there. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean those things I said. I didn't mean to hurt you, only scare you a little. You can wake up now."

Once Derek started, he couldn't stop apologising. He hadn't done a lot of apologising in his life, because he didn't like to admit his mistakes...didn't like to admit he was a failure.

But that didn't seem to matter when he was sitting on Stiles' bedroom floor.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sor-" a endless mutter of words, joining the endless strokes Derek carded through Stiles' hair.

Derek knew that sorry didn't fix anything.

It was like shattering glass then placing a bandaid on it. Like breaking a heart then drowning it in alcohol. It didn't do anything. It just numbed you for a bit, and then waited for you to wake up to in the morning.

It was all a damn pretence. It was fake and worthless.

Because sorry didn't make it better.

Derek's mom would have said that sorry didn't fix it, that you had to learn from your mistakes. Learn not to do it again. You could make it better that way.

But, Derek could only take Stiles' life once. He could learn all the ways to save a dying human being. He could study for years to learn to help people. He could become a doctor so he could save people from the clutches of death....But that wouldn't bring Stiles back.

Nothing would bring Stiles back.

Because Derek couldn't give back the life he took.

So he just sat there. A cooling body in his arms as the sun slowly moved closer to the horizon...Sitting in the room with only the silence.

He tried to ignore the silence, tried to focus on the sound of his own heart beating. But that didn't help. Because it just reminded him of the absences of Stiles'.

So he just sat there. Staring at nothing, not knowing where to go next.

He couldn't just get up and leave, dump Stiles on the ground and just jump out the window. He couldn't take Stiles to Deaton's, like they usually would do if any of them was hurt. He couldn't call up Scott, because what could he say?

He couldn't do anything.

The only place waiting for Stiles now was in the ground next to his mother.

And Derek wasn't prepared to let him go. Because it just didn't feel like this was true. Like he would wake up, and then Stiles would be there. Yelling and him and throwing sass his way. And then Derek would retaliate, probably smacking him over the head.

_Or breaking his neck._

Derek flinched then. Whole body shivering with the tremor that ran through him. His hand stopped moving in Stiles' hair. And he looked down at Stiles suddenly, head snapping down after a long period of stiffness.

And Stiles was just staring down at the ground next to Derek's hip, head leaning heavily on his beating heart.

Derek gently lifted his other hand from Stiles hip, the hand in Stiles hair holding the nape of his neck. He gently placed his thumb under Stiles chin and his forefinger on the boy's cheek. He tilted the boy's head back, the light from the early morning sun moving across his face as Derek shifted him.

Then he stopped, Stiles eyes staring up with Derek holding him like a infant.

And Derek just looked.

The light caught his eyes, doing that thing that it did to his irises in the light. The usual dark brown coming alight with colour, the lower half of his iris turning a beautiful glowing gold.

Derek stared at his eyes. The moles dancing across his pale skin. The light shadowing across his nose and jaw and profiling his face. His Adam's apple, just a barest of a curve at his throat. His hair, that had grown as he aged.

Derek wondered if he would have grown it out, had he been allowed the chance.

Another tremor ran through Derek then, much more violent than the last. He felt his body react like wave, pawing through his muscles and bones, leaving him momentarily immobile.

He shuddered again, body curling as it pierced through him like an arrow...Except Derek knew what it felt like to be shot with an arrow.

It didn't feel like this.

He bit his lip as it hit again, and he let Stiles fall back into his arms. The boy just crumpled against him.

And then a short, sharp sound fell from Derek's mouth. Suddenly and unexpectedly. It bounced off the walls in the room, off the glass planning board and the desk cluttered with homework. Off the windows and the mirrors.

He bit it off as it rose again, trying to fight its way from his body.

Because it was even worse than the silence. But, his body betrayed him. And the angst did not come out in sound. He fought it off, harshly biting his lip as his eyes filled with traitors tears.

But he couldn't even do that.

So he just sat there, traitors tears escaping is eyes and falling down his cheeks. And it was like he unleashed a dam. Took out the barrier and just...let go.

He leaned down, burying his face into Stiles' short hair. Hiding his face from the world, so it wouldn't see such a pitiful weakness. Because he was weak. He was a idiot.

And he'd _killed_ Stiles.

He fought against the tears. Fought again every hot tear that tracked down his cheeks. Because he shouldn't be able to cry. These weren't his tears to shed. Not after everyone he'd lost.

He'd cried too much, and then not enough.

Because it wasn't just Stiles. It was Erica and it was Boyd...It was Laura. And, so some extent, it was his uncle too.

It was everyone that he refused to mourn.

But now, sitting here in this teenage boys room: A boy that should have been a uninvolved stranger, just living his happy mundane life. He couldn't help but let it go.

But he had to fight it. Like he fought everything. He had to fight this.

Because if he wasn't fighting he would be dead. Dead like his sister and his uncle. Dead like his pack.

Everyone died around him. And he could only fight it. Fight off the emotion and the pain. Too much death. Too much blood.... And he tried to minimise the psychological damage to his mind and the emotional pain to his soul.

But he'd been fighting so long. Against so much. Stiles was the turnover. The last straw. The one that pushed Derek off the edge.

He groaned, but it sounded like the pitiful moan of a dying animal. He tried to bury his face further into Stiles hair, trying to obscure the sound.

He wondered idly if his skin was bruising in Derek's hold.

But he couldn't ease his hold. He couldn't let Stiles go. Because he was already gone. Derek knew it. He was gone like everyone else. He'd left Derek, just like they all had. And hurt, God it-

No.

He couldn't cry. Couldn't mourn. He didn't have any right to Stiles. Didn't have any right to mourn his passing.

Because Stiles wasn't his to mourn.

No. No. He couldn't. It wasn't right. Damnit. He had to fight the tears. Push them away so they would leave him alone. Leave him to-.

_It's okay to cry._

Derek remembered Stiles saying that once. It was a fleeting phrase, lost in the multitude of things that seemed to tumble from Stiles' mouth.

But now Derek remembered it.

The voice was strong, the little vocal quirks echoing in Derek's mind. So simple. So very Stiles.

_It's okay._

Derek closed his eyes, resting his forehead on the crown of Stiles' head.

And he cried.

.........

The Sheriff would walk in a few hours later after his all night shift.

And he'd walk into the house, making his way to check on his son. He'd walk past all the pictures on their wall, not knowing that within the next day he'd be sitting on the stairs crying as he looked at his sons smiling face.

And then the Sheriff would quietly make his way down at the hall, making sure not to wake his sleeping son.

He would open the doer to his son's bedroom. And his whole world will shatter.

Because there would be Derek sitting on the ground in the soft morning sunlight. The early ray's of the sun casting light on his slumped frame, making his shadow span across the room to reach the Sheriff's own feet.

The Sheriff would see Derek facing the window, with denim clothed legs curled limply and brokenly over his lap come to rest on the floor next to him.

Then he would call out Derek's name questioningly.

And the man wouldn't answer.

He'd walk closer, peering over Derek's shoulder quizzically. And there would just be Stiles curled in Derek's arms, head down as Derek stared into the distance.

The Sheriff would call their names.

And neither of them would answer. They would just sit: blank eyed and unmoving. The Sheriff would be shaking them both with increasing urgency, kneeling next to them and yelling their names.

He would cry when he found no pulse on Stiles' neck. And he would scream for help, confusion and grief stacking against his sanity. He'd stare at them with with wide, urgent eyes. Trying to do something, anything to make them stop. Make them wake up from whatever this was.

But neither would move. Neither would answer.

Because they were both gone now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think, or feel free to leave more ideas that you think might be nice and heartbreaking.
> 
> See y'all later


	26. Wolfsbane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But, now, as he was: just laying there held up against Erica, Scott hovering over them and his blood covering them both. He was numb and senseless. Not hot, not cold. Just pleasantly numb. Safe, secured between two of the strongest people he knew.
> 
> It wasn't such a bad way to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by: PrincezzShell101
> 
> Blame them for your heartbreak ;)
> 
> I hope you enjoy some Erica feels. It's a little different writing style from what I'm used too.
> 
> :)

Did you know that wolfsbane was also poisonous to humans?

Yep.

Stiles didn't either.

But he really should have. He knew a lot of things. He could recite the history of the male circumcision.

He knew a lot...but he didn't know what could have saved him in the end.

 

* * *

 

 

It was just a bullet. He'd been shot before, no big deal. Stiles thought it was a brilliant idea, since humans couldn't be hurt by it, right? Stop Erica from being poisoned.

Stiles could heal, abit slowly, from the bullet. Erica wouldn't be able to.

Or that's what he thought.

Because Stiles had been _shot_.

And it wasn't as easy as he thought. But that was the way, wasn't it? He always got these grand ideas but they were never as easy as he thought them to be. In the end, it was all kinda stupid.

But anyway. Bullet. Been shot.

It was a fact. A truth. He felt the gaping wound his side, for the lords sake. But that didn't mean it didn't feel real.

He stared at the ground in front of his eyes, trying to remember how he had gotten this way. He racked his brains, trying to think. They were..in a battle? Maybe?

Stiles couldn't tell. His hearing seemed to be a bit dysfunctional at the moment. Which was strange. How did he know that? He'd never been without hearing before, so how did he know it was missing? For all he knew he just had some earmuffs on.

Wait, no. Focus. He needed focus.

He had been shot. In a battle...but why? Why had he been shot?

He heard a groan on his left. Frowning, he tried to identify the sound. Was it a person? How were they right next to his ear?

"Stilinski?" The groan turned into a voice. It was Erica. Huh. He was pretty sure he was on her, and he was even more sure that it could count for molestation of some sort...Oops? Stiles tried to respond, only to find that he couldn't.

Blood spilled from his lips. He knew it was blood, despite the fact that he couldn't see the substance. He ran with Wolves, felt injuries. He knew its texture when he felt it.

And the smell was a dead give away.

But that might have been the battle around them. Battles were always full of blood and death. Who knew?

He tried to answer again. To give some sort of affirmative though his disorientated thoughts and faulty body. But that blood also answered his question a second time.

Seemed to bullet had managed to get his lung too. So, not just a simple bullet then: huh, Stiles?

And that was very bad...Right? Stiles couldn't quite remember how he knew that, or if it was even true. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe he was just concussed and insane.

Either could be true.

But, seriously. He could never catch a break. All his plans ended up in a pile of shit. Or blood, apparently. That was a new one.

He didn't know anymore, but maybe Erica did? Erica acted like she knew everything. And he didn't like not knowing. He almost tried to ask Erica his series of questions, both helpful and just from his running thoughts: before he was once again interrupted by blood.

He choked, spitting it out hitting the ground all sticky and gunky: Undeniably gross. Urgh. Yep...He was totally gonna faint.

But, God, short term memory much?

"Hey, Stilinski?" He felt the young woman shift her body, and came to wondering how he felt that.

He felt her shift again, and suddenly their situation became clear to Stiles.

He had pushed the smaller and yet stronger girl down...he had pushed him down to avoid a bullet the she-wolf hadn't seen until it was too close. But he had seen it.

And now it was somewhere on the battle field, sitting innocently after doing so much damage. It just ripped through him and couldn't even be bothered to stick around. Abandoning him despite all it had done.

Cheers, dick head.

He was laying on top of the wolf, laying like dead weight over her legs. Stiles felt the sudden urge to speak...and somehow he managed to get though the blood, if only for a sentence.

"Okay...promise me you won't freak out." He began, trying to clear his own head and think rationally.

"Oi. Stilinski, talk sense." Erica commanded. And then she moved.

Pain. It shot though Stiles like a second bullet. He panted, trying to focus on his breathing.

"Oh god" he moaned. " _Please_...don't move." He babbled, blood spilling from his lips and splattering on the ground.

The blonde had sat up, shifting her legs in the process.

"What do you mean, don't move? What the hell is wrong with you? We need to get up and back in the fight." Erica said, voice above him now despite the fact that Stiles was still laying over her body.

Ha. That was funny. Erica was both above him but below him. It probably wasn't physically possible. But Erica had always been notorious for making anything possible. Most usually with her stunning endowments that were on show.

Stiles giggled, before suddenly descending into violent coughing. He grunted, spitting out more blood. It was staring to get annoying. Stupid blood kept interrupting him, getting in his way.

"Answer me you idiot!" Erica almost yelled, and Stiles heard the worry in her voice: snapping Stiles from his reverie.

"Okay..um...well." He tried, feeling the blood threaten to choke him again.

"Oh, this is just juvenile." Erica growled, the only warning for when she moved again.

Stiles wanted nothing more than to scream. He felt his neck muscles bulge and teeth clench as he desperately tried to keep it inside. He had his eyes scrunched shut, tears flowing from his eyes and blood bubbling from his closed lips.

Funny...he hadn't cried since he was eight.

He opened his eyes as the pain steadily diminished, watching spots fly though his vision. Though the spots, he saw the sky.

It was pretty today. Although, it was always pretty this time of year in California. Sun shining, flowers blooming. Spring had always been his favourite season.

It really was a lovely time of year.

Erica gasped, his face coming into Stiles' vision and blocking some of that pretty sky.

"Oh my god Stiles." She moaned, as though she was in physical pain. Stiles lazily searched Erica's body for wounds, eyes not quite up to the same speed as his mind. Her head was bleeding, bright crimson was covering her temple and working its way down past her eyes.

Must of hit her head on the way down. Maybe on a rock or something. Sorry, Erica

"S-Saved you" he gasped, choking on blood with a cheeky smile. Although, he was pretty sure it came out as more of a grimace.

Because blood was bubbling from his lips

He quickly moved his head to the side and - despite the dizziness it caused - he spat out the offensive liquid. He looked at it in in the dirt, the unnatural crimson and purple mixing with the ugly brown dirt.

Yes, that purplish crimson was a surprise in itself. And he knew it was not supposed to be there, it was unnatural. It was supposed to stay inside him. Or at least the crimson was. The purple, he wasn't so sure.

But he was sure in that fact that this was very bad.

 

* * *

 

Stiles gasped out, struggling for breath.

He knew he was going to die. He'd seen it so many times that he just knew. It was a little different from what he was used to, seeing as he was dying this time around. At least now he wouldn't have to watch anyone else die.

Or maybe not, knowing his shit luck. The hunters would probably kill somebody in front of him as he breathed his last breaths.

He hoped not.

Because he was dying, wasn't that enough? He was about to lose his own life, give up everything he ever known. But, maybe not. Maybe his mom was waiting. Huh.

Stiles was dying. It was a fact, a truth.

But he had never died before. He didn't know how it felt. Some people said it was cold, like ice. Others said it was like burning in a furnace.

Stiles didn't know what to think.

He only felt numb.

Well, kinda. He felt the ground beneath him, the wind around him and the woman above him. Pressing down on him.

Wait...he didn't know that.

He gasped, finally registering the pain Erica was giving him. The hold on his wound lessened, but still persisted.

"-iles.....Stiles!" Erica said, and Stiles focused in on her finally, mind within the present. "Where is the bullet? Did it go though?"

Stiles frowned. Yes, the bullet. It was gone. Couldn't even stick around to deal with the damage it brought. But it shouldn't be hurting him should it? It was wolfsbane.

Little did he know that the poison was already in his mind.

"...D-Donno" he struggled.

Erica winced, pressing his wound harder. Stiles whimpered pitifully, but he didn't hold back.

"Shit...I'm sorry... But I need to stop the bleeding." She explained. As if that was the only problem. But, he didn't hold it against her. Neither of them knew the poison would kill him even before the blood loss managed too.

Stiles nodded jerkily, trying to adapt to his new pain. It was strange really. He had known all sorts of pain in his seventeen odd years of life. Be it his own pain, or somebody else's: Hell, you could even say that pain was his constant companion. But. He had always managed to adapt, to live with each and every speck of it.

Just like now. He was adapting to this new pain.

Except...this pain was physical. It wouldn't go away once his mind had dealt with it. Not like the Nogitsune. This wasn't a battle of the minds. Just pure, real: pain.

And this time...his body couldn't fix the damage that had been done.

"You are the biggest idiot I know, Stiles." Erica stated rather viciously. "That bullet was meant for me."

Stiles only smiled hauntingly, the blood on his lips seeming to drain the rest of his colour. Or maybe that was just because he was dying.

Stiles was suddenly confronted with thoughts of home. And confronted with the fact that he would never see his dad again.

Oh god...his dearest father.

He was at home...just waiting for Stiles to return to him. For his son to come back home, banged and scraped, like he'd done every other time before. Waiting to hold him and patch up his wounds, putting him to bed and telling him: _son, you did good._

Forever hoping, forever waiting for his son to come home.

...Knowing that Stiles never would.

 

* * *

 

He was loosing a lot of blood. The bullet had hit his spleen...and had apparently grazed something else vitally important.

His lungs.

He could just imagine the gaping hole, letting his lung fill up full of blood. And poison, apparently. If he wasn't careful, he could drown in it.

Ha. That would be ironic.

To drown in the substance that kept him alive, kept him functioning day by day. To drown in his own blood.

Or it could all leave him, spread out on the ground where it certainly didn't belong. He could feel it all pouring from him and that numbness filling in the spaces left behind.

All in all. It came down to death.

But then again, that was all the supernatural was.

Death.

Everything it did, always led to bloodshed. Weapons, poisons, claws. It all just lead to death. And was apart of this world, tainted by death too.

He remembered the day he made his bones. He remembered Scott's arms around him, holding him as he cried. He hated death, and he hated _himself_ even more being apart of its vicious cycle. It took so much from everyone.

And, if he remembered correctly...there wasn't much difference in the situation now. Except with lovely and unexpected Erica. Although, not that unexpected. Stiles would throw himself in front of a bullet for anyone, especially anyone in his pack.

But that's all he was. Death. But it was always someone else's death, never his own. His pack would never allow it.

And it was only fair that he should take his turn.

But that's what he had been trying to change. That vicious cycle, death for death. Over and over and over. They were trying to break it all to pieces. Trying to destroy it all, and then being something cleaner back from the ashes.

Because revenge is what drove the wolves. Hunter vs Werewolves. When one was killed, the rest came with vengeance. Then the other would retaliate, swooping in to get revenge for the lives that had been taken.

Rinse, and repeat.

He was trying to change the world, his pack strong beside him. No more cycles of death and vengeance. To break the chain and make it all just stop.

Stop the death and dying.

But still, here he was. Contributing to that vicious cycle he had worked so hard to break.

...Seemed like it wasn't meant to be after all.

He knew that his death would bring more vengeance. His pack would avenge him. They would tear down the hunters, shattering them all and destroying human life.

But then there would always be someone to avenge them.

It would never end. It would be like the Hale fire all over again. And he didn't want that. It was the opposite of what he had lived for.

And, if he was going to die...that was what he wanted to die for.

For peace.

"Erica" he gasped, coming back to reality where Erica was fretting over his dying body.

Erica's brown eyed gaze pieced him. Stiles could see the raw emotion tearing her apart. Erica usually kept everything under wraps. Years of trying to hide her disease hadn't left her even when it had. She never showed emotion other than the one she was projecting. Always keeping up the seductive and sassy façade.

But after spending so long with the girl in this pack...he knew what to look for. And he was pretty sure Erica wasn't trying to hide this anyway.

Stiles didn't know if she could.

"No...I don't...God _Stiles_ " she hissed, before screaming out "Derek!"

As if the alpha could save him now.

"N-no more." He gasped through his laboured breaths. Erica looked like she was fraying at the seams, her eyes darting around his body and her brain running a million miles per hour.

He certainly knew what that was like. Wondering, searching your brain... _praying_ for a way to save them. He'd done it many times over the years.

He had also known how much it hurt when you couldn't save them in the end. When you were just left holding a blank and lifeless body. Clinging their hand as they breathed their last breaths, eyes staring into your own.

That was his fate, just like many others. Like his mom...Huh. He'd always wanted to be more like his mom, staring into the mirror and willing his own reflection to change into hers. So he could see a part of her again. For just a moment.

And now he was. He was like his mom, finally... Because they were both dying young. Both leaving his dad behind. With a empty house and a full whiskey bottle.

Stiles wanted to cry.

"No more what, idiot!? I can't understand you. I never have, even after I tried to beat it out of you!" Back to threats of violence. But, it was nice to see you again, Erica. The all consuming fear for him didnt suit her.

Stiles only shook his head feverishly. He was trembling, the numbness was taking hold. Neither of them knew what was happening to him.

"He needs the bite from Derek. We need him, idiot!" He heard. He felt another pair of hands on him. He didn't really know. He couldn't see. Were his eyes closed?

"He..." Stiles heard, before it trailed off again. Did they stop speaking, or was it Stiles' hearing playing up again?

Guess he'd never know.

"He can't. It's infused with wolfsbane. Stiles will end up like Gerard."

Scott wasn't very smart, but he had been studying lots of old history that helped them. He knew different poisons. He also knew when somebody was dying...and when they couldn't be saved. Nice contribution, Scott. Really. 10/10. But Stiles was already ahead of you, like usual. Scott tried, he did. Scott always tried. He always tried to save everyone.

But not everyone could be saved.

"Don't give up on him! You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Derek can't save him." Scott sounded so resigned, so heart broken. Stiles retracted his previous encouragement: a little positivity would be nice.

"Fuck you, yes he can. Werewolf bite can heal anything...e-even this." That's Erica for the positivity. But, despite all their wishes...that couldn't save him.

Because this was him, dying. Was this is what dying was like? Just numbness?

That was rather anticlimactic.

Over the years, he'd come to expect a lot worse. But if he was gonna die: he would at least want to be aware. At least know his wound. Know every reason why he had to die today.

But he couldn't deny the numbness was kinda nice. Like falling asleep, wrapped in a feather duvet and in a mountain of pillows. It was so soft. Safe.

Like nothing could hurt him anymore.

Maybe Erica had his head in her bosom. Nice pillow to die on, he must say. Top effort. Almost like they rehearsed this: people dying on her, that is. But, that wasn't a very nice thought. Back up, Stilinski.

Hang on. Erica. Boobs. Stiles. Ha, good one world, since it was as close as he was gonna get. Oh yeah, thanks to his brain also for reminding him of that fact. He was dying a virgin. Stiles the Virgin. Maybe they'd put that on his gravestone.

Great.

But, at least he could appreciate it now. The warmth of being held by a woman. He hadn't felt it since his mom died....God, he missed her. But, now he might see her again. He wondered if she was waiting. He hoped so...It had been a very long couple of years.

But, now, as he was: just laying there held up against Erica, Scott hovering over them and his blood covering them both. He was numb and senseless. Not hot, not cold. Just pleasantly numb. Safe, secured between two of the strongest people he knew.

It wasn't such a bad way to die.

 

But, shouldn't he feel his pain? If he was to die from a bullet/poison, shouldn't he feel it? If he couldn't even feel the reason he-

No.

That wasn't it. He was going around in circles.

Hang on.

He was supposed to be doing...something...

"-iles!...Fuck...come back to me, you idiot!" A voice yelled, before another voice was calling over it. Echoing, calling for Derek.

Stiles giggled, but it quickly turned into choking. His body convulsed against Erica as more blood dribbled down his front in a thick dark wave. But, It seemed Erica's brash language was slipping in to her speech because of her stress and fear.

Silly Erica.

Look who wasn't being very _articulate_ now.

But no...that wasn't what he wanted to be thinking about...there was something else.

Something very important.

He could still see Erica and Scott above him. Their blood and dirt covered faces, tears running down their cheeks. Stiles wanted to say sorry, but it felt like there was a barrier between him and them. Like the blood had given in to the numbness.

Blood...numbness...Blood...Blood!

"No...more..blood...b-b-bloodshear?" He asked, gasping and keening as Erica held trembling hands in his hair, with Stiles desperately trying to think of what he _needed_ to say.

He needed them to know. He needed to say his part. He'd dealt with too many unfinished goals in life. Too many unheard goodbyes.

He needed to say this.

So he wouldn't just be another soul that perished in this vicious cycle. Not just another teen that was taken so tragically by death.

Blood...blood what?

Bloodshear...bloodtear...blood...bloodshed!

"Bloodshed!" He cried out. Erica visibly flinched at his cry, hands stilling from their repetitive movement in his hair. "No more!" He announced, gasping and crying.

Why was he crying?

He didn't need to cry. He didn't feel pain.

Hell, he couldn't really feel anything at the moment.

"No more bloodshed?" Erica repeated. Stiles watched as recognition came over them both, and Scott retaliated. "Oh no, buddy! You need to live to make that happen. We need to all live through this!" He cried, shaking Stiles' shoulders. Or at least Stiles thought he did. He didn't really feel it, more of sensed it.

Stiles folded to his touch, limp and not quite there anymore.

His brain warped in the weirdest ways. Ha. Hang on...warped? That was like a Star Wars, right? He wasn't a space ship, he was human.

At least he thought he was.

Humanity was not something he was very familiar with anymore.

" _We are going through a warp, captain._ " He recited. It sounded legible to his ears, others. He guessed it was just a jumble of worlds. Oh well.

He heard Scott sob.

"Stiles...Captain." He was saying. Stiles couldn't hear him though. He'd ruined the moment, huh? But they were both notorious for doing that.

Scott would just have to do it on his own now.

He felt more hands on him, and saw more faces above him. Blurs of brown, black and blonde..And, wait. Was that strawberry blonde? His whole pack was here, minus Derek. Where was Derek?

Arms were everywhere, holding him. Staining themselves in blood as they latched onto him. Trying, and failing, to save him.

It was already too late.

Their voices rose into a unidentifiable symphony of sound, calling. Crying. Yelling.

But that didn't really matter now...because he was numb. He felt weightless, like nothing was touching him. Like that really nice fabric that felt light and smooth and amazing. The one that made up his mom's favourite shirt and always smelt like her perfume.

Ah....silk. That's the one.

He felt like silk. He was silk. He was light, he was weightless. Floating up, rippling in the light towards his mother's soft embrace. There were no boundaries...Except for those arms around him. Holding him, stopping from from floating away in the stars.

"Let...l-let me g-go. Want to f-float." He gasped, broken words making broken sentences.

"You can't go, Idiot."

"Your life is here."

"Stay with us."

The words overrun the echoing screams of Derek's name in the distance, only for a moment. Moment, or hours. Stiles didn't know how long they held him, trying to find Derek so he could come save him..Grabbing onto that slim hope, that in reality didn't even exist. Because wolfsbane was infecting and poisoning his whole body, slowly destroying him from the inside.

It could have been forever.

But Stiles didn't notice, because Stiles couldn't see. Everything else was gone apart from their echoing voices and pleas in the distance. He was in an abyss, waiting to float off and join the stars.

They were so far away, but he wasn't scared. He was safe now.

Because there was only so much a person could be hurt. So far you could push them before they shit down. You couldn't feel pain once you were dead. Nobody could hurt him more than this. Not ever again.

No pain. No grief. No death.

Just numb _bliss_.

"But I have none life." He said, words not piecing together in the way he hoped. Language was not a barrier. Words had no meaning...Because he wasn't there anymore.

"No...no... _Stiles!_ " He heard.

But he was floating.

"No..no don't...you...no!... _don't you dare!"_

Fate did not bind him. Nothing could bind him, not the arms around him...Not anymore. His mom was waiting..he was going home.

" _Derek!"_

He was made of silk.

" _ **DEREK!** "_

It was a fact, a truth.

And he was gone.

 

* * *

 

 

_Death...I know you're always with us,_

_Wandering discretely in the background._

_Watching...waiting...biding your time,_

_Ignored, for you make no sound._

 

 

_You have no hidden agenda,_

_Your work is known by everyone._

_Despised and hated by many,_

_But a blessing and saviour for some._

 

_You know I look for you in the shadows,_

_I am intrigued as to what I will see._

_Is the face of Death torture?_

_Or is it the face that sets you free?_

 

_For in Death there is no more pain,_

_No more heartache, no more sorrow._

_No more dark clouds to darken your day,_

_No more praying for a better tomorrow._

 

_So yes, Death, when you call on me,_

_Into your arms I will run._

_I will gladly lay my head on your chest,_

_For in this world... I am done._

_-Wallii_

 


	27. Cancer w/Mama Stilinski

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoever said that death was cold was a complete idiot.
> 
> Stiles knew death like the back of his hand.
> 
> Death was nothing but constant pain and struggle. A heart pumping furiously, a pair of lungs expanding rapidly... Trying to stay alive.
> 
> It was an enemy to fight against every single day.
> 
> Stiles knew death all too well...
> 
> For he had been dying for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mama Stilinski anyone?
> 
> Inspired by My Sisters Keeper 
> 
> I'm sorry in advance.

Whoever said that death was cold was a complete idiot.

Stiles knew death like the back of his hand.

Death was nothing but constant pain and struggle. A heart pumping furiously, a pair of lungs expanding rapidly... Trying to stay alive.

It was an enemy to fight against every single day.

Stiles knew death all too well...

For he had been dying for a very long time.

 ....... 

He couldn't remember when it all started. When his life turned to hell.

From all he remembered, he had always been this way. He had never known another life before this hell.

He had only been 4 years old when they found it, when he was just beginning to understand the world. His parents had taken him to the doctors when he didn't stop screaming in pain... and the happy life they had been building all fell to pieces in an instant.

Stiles had Brain Cancer.

A slap across the face for his parents, who were only just finding their way though parenthood, before it all turned around and stabbed them in the back.

They had him young, his mother had only been nineteen and his father had been twenty one. They had no plans or preparations, only solving problems as they came across them. But, Stiles liked to think that they had been doing well before it all went to shit.

He didn't like to think that he had destroyed their chances of having a happy family.

Even if it wasn't really anyone's fault Stiles had turned out this way... he couldn't help but feel as though it was.

So, now at sixteen years of age...

He was ready to die.

.......

His life was nothing but hardships. It was like his family was running through a maze, and every twist and turn caused nothing but pain. His mother virtually jumped hoops everyday just to keep him going.

His mother...

He watched her now, cleaning the dishes from their shared dinner. Washing and re-washing everything to make sure Stiles had the most sterile environment possible.

Stiles guessed that she might have been beautiful in a different life. With her creamy completion and light brown eyes that lit up her face.

And, maybe if this life hadn't been hers, she could have done something with her exotic beauty.

But, this was her life.

A distant husband, working himself to the bone everyday. And a dying son, who was slowly leaving her.

Even if she didn't want admit to either.

He had seen photos of her when she was young, and she had been so full of life. His father, when he was around, had told him that she used to be bright, never without a twinkle of curiosity in her eyes. That she had always laughed at his jokes. That she was always carefree.

That she had been happy.

But, that past life did not stay with her. Those carefree days were over. Now, she just lived her days caring for Stiles' every need.

And Stiles hated it.

Yes, he knew he needed her constant attention to live... but this was not what she deserved. She deserved a mansion, or to be a princess.

She didn't deserve to have her future taken away, simply because her son was sick.

But, she still willingly gave it up. Now, she was nothing but a simple housewife, with a distant working husband and a sick child.

Stiles hated that she had so willingly gave everything up for him.

...Maybe if he hurried up and died it would all be better.

He was sure that once he was gone, his father wouldn't have to work so far away to get money for his treatment. He could be home, with his mother. His mother, she wouldn't have to suffer his pitiful existence like a constant thorn in her side.

They could begin again... they could have another child.

One that wasn't him. One that wasn't sick, one that wasn't dying. And that was fine. That was what he wanted.

But the only problem was that his mother wouldn't give up. She fought hard for his survival, forgetting her sense of self-preservation.

...he was already giving up, but she continued to fight. Every. Single. Day.

It would be better for everyone if she did.

All Stiles' struggles could fade away, leaving him with only simple oblivion. His father could finally relax, let all that stress go. His mother could get that light back into her eyes.

And they could all forget this unsuccessful venture, and begin again.

In his twelve odd years of treatment, he had been pumped full of chemo, had Radiation swamp his body and had endured steroids that had caused not much else but pain.

But, even as the other's failed... he was still on steroids. He had just come out of remission, for the sixth time, last week. His mother had immediately begun giving him steroid injections each week. Puncture wounds and scars littered his arms and thighs, healing so very slowly. The scars that voiced a much bigger darkness inside him. A darkness that couldn't be seen.

The silent killer.

Now... Stiles had always listened to his mother. Taking his medications and treatments like she told him too. Always keeping positive when she told him to. But, after coming out of remission for the sixth time...

He had started to really look at what his existence really was.

And it was then that he realised; he caused nothing but pain by living. Pain to his mother, to his father. To himself.

He saw the truth, saw what he needed to understand.

And...he was giving up.

.......

He had looked up enough symptoms of dying on the internet, without his mother's knowledge. He knew the stages, knew the effects.

He knew that he only had a few weeks until he died.

He was already showing signs, putting him at the 8 week mark.

He had started moving restlessly, walking around the house with no destination in mind. His headaches had increased in intensity, showing signs of the swelling in his brain growing. He had begun to feel weak, and even getting up to go to the toilet wiped him of all his energy. He also noticed his attention wandering, his mind was no longer fully there...

Many would think that all this would scare him. But he wasn't sacred of them all like a normal human being. He was only scared of the final one.

He was scared of not being in control of his own mind.

Not decision could be truly his anymore. Hell, even his want to die might be just because of the illness. He wanted control, he wanted to be able to make a decision for himself, just for once. But, he couldn't make decisions now, nothing was rational.

And it was only going to get worse.

But... Stiles was prepared, he had been dying for a very long time. He was prepared to fight though the effects of dying if it could mean that his suffering could end.

"Genim?" His mother asked, breaking though his thoughts. She didn't like it when he thought... she liked being to one to make up his mind. "What are you thinking about?" She asked, coming to sit next to him at the table, her sterile rubber gloved hands resting on her lap.

He couldn't tell her he wanted to die. She would never let him think that way. And, if she knew just how close he was... she would only pump him though with more cell killing medication.

"Ah, nothing Mom" He said, turning to look at her from his previous stare-into-the-distance.

He looked at her now, up close. There where bags under her eyes, and her forehead was marked with a worried frown, the creases in her skin already winking despite her young age.

"Come on Genim, you can tell Mama." She said, looking at him evenly.

Stiles gulped internally, but putting on a calm front for his mother.

"Nah, I was thinking that I might go to bed early tonight" He sighed in relief at his save, and besides, he was tired.

More than usual...

"Oh, Okay then. Rest will keep you strong, Genim." She said.

He smiled at her, before quietly standing up and tucking in his chair before making his way to the stairs in their small two bedroom home.

"Oh, Genim?" His mother called out, still sitting at the table facing him. "We need to get the injections tomorrow" She said. Stiles felt his eyes flutter shut, and he sighed.

"Yes mom" He called out, before walking up the stairs.

We. She said we.

There was no we. He was the only dying one. But she always acted like this was her burden too. It wasn't, it shouldn't be. When he was younger, her active role in his treatment and comforted him.

But now he wished that she would just stop.

She wasn't dying. She wasn't sick. She was fine. Her only relation to the problem was that the problem was her son. Not her. And he had nightmares of her dying. He couldn't imagine anything worse. He wanted to to be the furthest from death she could be.

She shouldn't suffer just because he was.

.....

Stiles woke up to the sunlight in his eyes, shining in though his open window.

He smiled, basking in the warmth of the sun's rays. These where the things he loved about this world. Just the small reliefs, like the sun's warmth or the sound of a tinkling waterfall.

These where the things that he would miss.

But, these small delights paled in comparison to his overwhelming conscience. The things that he selfishly loved did not matter as much as saving his mother and father from himself. And so, he was happy to leave them behind if it meant they wouldn't be in pain anymore.

"Genim!" Was the call from down stairs. "Are you awake yet?"

Stiles smiled sadly, before calling out "Yes"

"Okay, We have to leave in twenty minutes to go to hospital" She called.

Oh yes... more medication.

His favourite.

"Yes mom!" He called, before swinging his legs lazily from his covers and over the side of his bed. his feet hit the ground as his eyes drooped. He sat there for a moment, looking around his room.

Just as he moved to push himself to stand, a wave of dizziness smashed straight into him. He toppled backwards, falling back onto his bed.

He laid still, heart racing as he tried to focus on the pale blue ceiling. His breathing was laboured, his eyes blurring... before it suddenly all disappeared.

He laid back, not moving as the ceiling came back into view.

...This was his life now.

And it was only getting worse.

......

He hated the hospital more than anything.

The harsh clinical smell, The over enthusiastic nurses...The pitying looks.

He hated being pitied. So, walking into the Oncology Ward clutching onto your mothers arm, at the age of sixteen: didn't help much

He didn't know how... But it was always evident that he was the dying one to the people around him.

It may have been his stiff, fluffy hair – that was kept under a beanie, mind you – that was the cause of being regrown multiple times after chemo. Or it could have been the slightly puffy and red cheeks that was the only evidence of his steroid medication.

He didn't know... but he wished they would just stop.

"Mr Stilinski?" Was a voice that echoed slightly off the white sterile walls.

He turned to take in the nurse before him, only taking a moment to realise it was his doctor, Dr East. She had always been a caring person, with a bright smile that never seemed to leave her face.

She had been with him though it all. Seen him in his dark places and brought him to see the light.

"Hi" He said. Usually he was a lot nicer to people...but today, he just wanted to go home.

She frowned at him, before smiling at his mother. "Just the usual today, Mrs Stilinski" She said, before taking his arm gently and leading him away.

"Wait... I want to come with you today" Claudia called out, seeming to come to a decision. Dr East frowned, looking discreetly at Stiles who just sighed, looking away from her gaze. Then she just turned back to his mother and smiled again.

"Alright, but you will have to stay outside" She said, before walking off again with Stiles, his mother trailing behind.

He didn't say anything to her or his mother as Dr East led him to the treatment room. He looked straight on as the people he past gave him more pitying looks.

For some reason... today he just didn't have the patience for anything.

When they reached the room, he quickly went towards the chair-bed. He knew the routine, they didn't need to be so formal about it.

Nana stayed by the door as the doctor walked in, the door closing and separating him from his mother.

Some part of him found relief in that small and undeniably thin wall of separation.

"How are you today, Genim?" His doctor said as she began to set up, pulling gloves onto her hands.

"For the last time, it's Stiles." He said, frustration only hinted in his tone. "I'm doing fine, as well as a dying kid can be." He said bitterly.

She stopped what she was doing to look at him evenly. But say didn't say anything, only staring at him until he looked back at her.

"You're more than just some 'dying kid', Stiles. You have people all around you that care for you. You're not just dying. You're bright, you're smart, you're handsome...you're alive. And that has to mean something to you" She said, staring him straight in the eyes.

He looked back at her, seeming to come back to the world.

"I'm so sorry, Katie." He said, looking down guiltily. He felt so bad, he didn't know why he was acting this way.

"It's all right Stiles. You're a teenager, and your condition causes irritability and rapid mood and personality changes, it's not your fault." She said, putting the large steroid needle together.

Oh yes, his condition.

He sighed sadly, before pulling off his shirt to expose his puncture marked shoulders. He looked at his scars momentarily, before staring up at the ceiling.

"Just get on with it please." He said. Katie smiled at him, before raising the needle and taking aim in a rare piece of unmarked flesh.

And then plunged it in.

......

 Claudia watched Stiles as he stared up at the ceiling.

She didn't like the look that had overtaken her son. It looked like acceptance. She didn't want him to accept this as his life. She wanted him to push forward, never taking anything to heart until the cancer was gone.

But, after twelve years of constantly battling his...condition, she guessed it was time he was humanly entitled to accept this life.

She couldn't accept that. He had to live on, he had to surpass her.

He wouldn't let him accept this life... she wouldn't let him stop fighting.

She couldn't.

But she should be used to this by now. She should be used to seeing gigantic needles enter her sons flesh, to see him endure countless treatments and their harsh side effects.

She should be used to his pain.

But she couldn't help but feel tears fill her eyes at the sight. He was so brave, so strong... but he looked so small in that chair. A chair made for adults, not children like him. It was in these moments that she forgot her resolve, her never ending fight...and just looked at her son.

His clear hazel eyes which reflected the light, his grey beanie that covered his thick hair. His small and thin frame that would never fill those big chairs, no matter what age he was.

She had watched this happen many times, and the only consistent thing was that his small frame would never fill that large chair.

And every single time... she was reminded of just how young he was.

But, he would age. He would grow. He would have a future.

He would surpass her. In age, and in life.

When he was born, she dreamed of seeing him married. When he was five, she dreamed of him receiving his college degree. Now... She dreamed of him turning eighteen.

But, she would not give up on him. She would see him turn eighteen, she would see him graduate, she would see him get married.

She would.

And nothing could stop her.

Not even the world.

.....

Weeks past, and Stiles could feel himself deteriorate inside.

His mother seemed to sense it too, and had started pushing him around more. 'Go get some rest.' 'Wake up and appreciate the day.' 'Eat more food, it's good for you.' 'Don't eat too much, you will get sick.'

He could feel the pressure building on his shoulders...and he was ready to explode. He only had a bare few weeks left; he didn't want to spend them this way.

He couldn't tell her yet. He knew he wouldn't be able to deal with her reaction. He knew he wouldn't be able to deal with the hurt.

He didn't want to cause anymore pain... he just wanted to go, peacefully.

It would be for the best.

"Come on Genim, It's time to pick your home tuition classes!" His mother called from the living room.

Stiles lay in his bed, his body prone and head buried in the covers as he fought off his nausea and dizziness. His room was completely dark, his curtains drawn.

"Not right now Mom!" He called, wincing at the loudness of his voice as it echoed in his head. A moment later, he heard footsteps climb up the stairs. His door swung open and mid-day light spilled into his room.

He groaned as the light found his eyes, burying his head further in the covers.

"I'm sorry, Genim. But we need to get you educated for your future."

"No" He said, voice devoid of emotion. He couldn't deal with her talk of the 'future' right now.

"What are you talking about? You can't just say no, you need your education so you can choose a career. Now, I've found a man named Derek who-"

"I said no, mom." He said again, voice muffed by his covers.

Suddenly, they were pulled from around him, and he lay on his mattress with no covering; looking up at his mother.

"No won't cut it." She said, anger beginning to creep into her normally cheerful voice.

Stiles felt his harsh mood rear its ugly head.

"Well, How about this. I'm probably going to die before I reach adulthood, and have no interest in picking a career right now." He said, looking up at her truthfully.

She looked taken aback, stepping back and dropping the sheets, emotions flying past her eyes.

Before she rebounded onto anger.

"No! You can't think like that! You will have future. You will live longer than me. You will get a career, and you will be successful!" She almost yelled...raising her voice at him for the first time.

But Stiles couldn't back down, not after all this time.

"You have always called the shots Mom. But I want to decide what I want to do now. This is my life, this is my sickness. Not yours, it never has been." He said, sitting up cross-legged as looking at her evenly.

"Excuse you!" She snapped, pointing an accusing finger at him. "I am your Mother! This has been my fight from Day One. You don't know anything about your treatments or symptoms, you never have! How could you do anything without that information? It is my responsibility, not yours!"

Stiles could feel the pressure building, his anger rising."But that's it! This is not your responsibility! This is my body, This is my battle, and I will fight it the way I want!"

"WITHOUT ME YOU WILL DIE!" She screamed, finally saying the forbidden word she had refused to admit during these horrible twelve years.

He looked at her as she finished that sentence, really looked at her. His posture softening and eyes opening, showing intense emotion that had been hidden for months.

"...But what if I want to die?"

His mother only stared blankly at him, and spoke very quietly after a pregnant pause.

"You want to die? Yeah? You just want to just give up, because it's all too hard?! I have worked so hard to ensure your survival..." She said, before her voice went horribly quiet again. "Just how selfish are you?" She asked.

Stiles just shook his head, looking away from her, eyes filling with sorrow and tears.

"You just don't understand." He said, sorrow thickening his voice as the first tears fell down his face. He didn't look at her as he moved to stand, to get away from her.

Before she pushed him back onto his bed, and his disease ridden body fell harshly, rocking the bed.

"Fine then" She began, leaning over his small body and turning into a woman a Stiles didn't recognise. "Tell me why you are so ready to just give everything up. Why you are just so willing to give up everything we have worked for?..TELL ME!" During the sentence, her voice escalated from a whisper to screaming, tears of anger flowing from her eyes as her face screwed up.

The emptiness ate at Stiles, further breaking his soul.

"I'm already dying mom. I don't get to choose anyway." He said, tears still flowing.

"Yes you do! We can get you more treatment, more chemo!" She said.

"There is no we dammit!" He screeched, all his pent up emotions flowing from him. "You are not dying! I'm the only one dying! I'm going to leave you all alone in this house and you are going to stay behind, because you can't come with me everywhere!"

"I may be your son, but the time will come – and you know it will – and I will die. I will die Mom, and you are not God. You can't shift the foundations of the world just so I will live. That's not fair."

"Can't you see? I was supposed to die a very long time ago, but you have kept me alive. You kept me alive, and you defied fate. My place is not on this earth, I don't belong here. I am meant to be dead."

"I'm going to leave you soon, and you will have nothing. Your whole life now is based upon me, that's not how it was supposed to be. You need to branch out, and I will not be around to limit your from your potential. You are beautiful Mum. You are beautiful, and you are healthy."

"Once I'm gone, you can start again. Dad will come home and you could even have another child! The world is yours for the taking. So take it, take it all..."

"And forget about me."

His mothers face turned from anger, into deep sorrow. As he finished, she started crying, deep and terrible sobs. She went to the ground, sobbing into her hands.

Stiles went to the ground beside her, hugging her tightly. She wrapped her arms around him, and held even tighter. She held him close, and whispered into his ear:

"I will never forget you, my baby boy."

.....

Later, his mother had fallen asleep, her raging emotions finally draining her.

And he dragged himself to his feet, trudging downstairs as his head pounded, his balance out the window. He managed to make it down stairs and to the phone.

He picked it up, dizziness and exhaustion making the phone double in front of his eyes. He dialled in a number burned into his memory and he it up to his ear, leaning heavily on the table.

"Hi, Dad?...You need to come home."

Days passed before his father could finally make it home. The house had been so quiet, his mother moving around like a mouse.

He didn't know if he liked it or not... it was so different from the loud and bubbly mother he knew.

But, when his father burst in with his smiles and warm hugs, he knew he much preferred this.

"How's my little Genim?" He asked, virtually jumping at him as he hurtled though the door.

Stiles sighed, but inwardly felt his mood lighten - the weight he handy know he carried - leaving him.

"Hi dad" he said, hugging him tightly and hands bunching in his dress shirt. He missed this. He missed his dad. Missed his warmth, his life, his love.

And it was in that moment that he decided he was doing the right thing.

His father could fill any void with his warmth and life... Even one left behind by his son. He would be fine, they both would. Stiles could leave them knowing they could care for each other, and that was all he needed.

"So...why did you need me home so urgently?" John asked, still hugging his surprisingly tactile son. He felt Stiles tense slightly in his arms, before his frail body relaxed immediately in his arms.

"...I need you to stop paying for my treatment" he said after a brief pause, quietly speaking into John's chest.

The world suddenly froze as John tried to process the shocking information.

Finally, after a long and tense silence "Why?" He asked, sadness and pain leaking into his tone.

"Look, I'm sorry... You might need to sit down for this." He said, before taking his shocked fathers hand and dragging him with surprising strength to the living room.

Once they where sat. John perched on the edge : as though ready for flight. His father was leaning fully into the couch: as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.

"It's been twelve years dad. I'm sixteen now, I've lived with this for as long as I can remember. All I've really known is pain. The cancer hurts dad, I can feel it now. It's pushing against my brain and infecting my body...I'm dying." He began, as he father only stared on, brain struggling to process what he could never truly understand.

"The treatments have only ever given me more pain-" he said, but quickly picked up before he could hurt his father anymore. "Yes, they are to help me live, to fight my cancer for me. You have worked long and hard for them, and I'm thankful..so thankful."

"..but why should I stop, why do you want me too?" His father asked, finally speaking.

"Because I want to die dad" Stiles said simply, but sorrow radiating from his eyes.

John felt everything wither away, leaving his son in front of his eyes. His bright hazel eyes, his caring expression, his cute face. His son. His baby. His only child.

And he wanted to die.

.

But, now that he knew...he could see how evident the signs were.

Stiles didn't see life they way everyone else did. He saw every moment as his last, either pain filled or stress free... It didn't matter. He had never known a proper life, never done anything people associated with living fully.

He had never seen life as something to treasure. Because he had no reason to.

All he had known was this. This cancer and this pain... And he wanted it all to stop.

John knew he should be angry, should be yelling at him for giving up on life. But he had never known Stiles' pain, he had never knew what it was like to be dying slowly. Just knowing everyday that more of what made you, withered away.

He had no right to judge him... Because his version of life was far different.

And no sane person would want to live with pain that would never leave.

So...he could only believe that this was what he truly wanted... And no matter how much it hurt...

He would give him up.

"I'm sorry dad...I just can't live with this anymore... I cause too much pain to everyone around me, I just don't want to be a burden. I understand if you don't love me anymore-" Stiles' hysteric babbling was cut off.

By his fathers warm arms around him.

He kneeled in front of Stiles, arms around his thin shoulders.

"I will always love you, not matter how much it hurts. I believe you. And I...and I can't judge you on your choice. I don't know what you go though everyday, I don't know how much pain you must deal with..." He broke off, before looking up at his son with eyes so powerful and full of emotion that Stiles could only stare.

"I will always love you..and I will always remember you."

Something broke inside of Stiles. He cried, clutching onto his father as he sobbed.

While they were tears of sorrow, they were also tears of happiness. His father understood...and he would love him no matter what. While his previous ideal was to be forgotten, to just become discarded...he didn't realise he much his missed pure and unadulterated love.

He missed his fathers unconditional love.

He was still willing to give up life for them...but he didn't want to be erased.

He wanted to be remembered. He didn't want to be forgotten. He knew it as selfish...but he didn't want his parents to forget that he had lived...that he had actually done something on this earth. That he had lived, that he had loved...

And that he had died.

He was happy dying for him, and everyone else that felt his pain. But he didn't want to be erased. And while he didn't want them to mourn him...he knew they would.

Because he knew life never gave away wishes without a price.

He was fine with what he would get. He would still remove their pain, and allow them to finally heal.

And that was okay.

......

He was close...death was coming.

He felt like he should be feeling more, that death should have more of a effect on him. But he had read, that the younger you were, the more likely it was to be still walking around in the hours up to death.

And he was nothing if not young.

Maybe this wasn't where his life was supposed to be...maybe he was meant to live...No. That was not right...he knew he was meant to be dead already.

Only his fathers stubbornness had kept him alive. And now he was numb to it all.

It was his time, there was no doubt.

His body was shutting down finally...after all these years. He could walk... But not in a straight line. The dizziness was a permeant feature of his life now.

The house was quiet, his father wandering around as if he could feel death already within its walls.

Stiles could too...he knew it too.

Coherent thinking was hard to come by now, it was just all a big mess of random thoughts jumping out at him for no reason. Sometimes, those strange thoughts would just jump his throat, and he spoke them without reason.

And it was scary as hell.

He sat, knees curled to his chest on his bed. He could feel the pressure in his skull...he could feel his cancer sucking away his life.

His cancer.

It was his. Only his. If he kept it all inside, he could take away all the pain he felt. His father wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. Soo he sat, curled up with knees to his head and arms wrapped around himself. Keeping it all inside...When all he wanted to do was cry.

But he could stop the small tears that ran down his puffy cheeks, still bloated despite his stop in treatment.

He was tired. He wanted to just hurry up.

The world swirled around, his eyesight giving in. He could hardly hear anymore, only short spasms of sound before it all faded away again, leaving his ears ringing.

So he sat, a cancer ridden child, blind and deaf to the world

It was terrifying.

He didn't know this world. He didn't understand it. It was too different, too loud, too hot, too colourful.

It was overwhelming.

He wanted it all to stop. He could feel the warm rising sun on his side.

But even one of his traditional comforts couldn't help him now.

He was paralysed.

Anything below his waist refused to move..and his left arm was going numb. He was scared...he wanted his dad. He wanted his mom.

But only one of them would hear his call now.

He didn't know which one it would be, for he was both life and death. Only half living. He didn't know which parent he was closest to now. But, either would do. Either would ease his pain.

...he just wanted somebody to hold him.

So that was when he started screaming. He couldn't keep it all inside, it was fighting it's way from his dying body. He couldn't help it, no matter how much it hurt to be torn from the centre of his pain, deep inside him. Exploding from his throat, the pain to extreme for words to tell.

"HELP ME!" He screamed, writhing, voice cracking pathetically.

He could feel his fathers hands on him, his tears falling into his Stiles' hair. And Stiles knew he was there. He knew, because he felt his shaking hands on his clammy skin. Stiles wanted to hold him, to pull him close so he wouldn't let the pain consume him.

But he couldn't move.

Stiles couldn't see him, he couldn't touch him. He couldn't embrace his simple warmness... Not all of this overwhelming range of temperature which would not stop, would not leave him alone.

 

Whoever said that death was cold was a complete idiot.

Stiles felt nothing but hot, burning pain. It was all around him, blinding him and paralysing him.  
It was infinite, and he knew it would burn him up until there was nothing left to salvage. But that was good, right?

That's what he wanted. It meant he was close...right?

He didn't know, he didn't understand.

He just wanted it all to stop.

In these painful hours: He dreamt of a cold and simple oblivion, washing over him like an cool ocean wave. The serenity, and the silence.

The cold simplicity.

...He couldn't wait.

 ........

 Stiles stared into the distance with blind eyes. Not seeing his parents that stood over him.

They stood over him, shaking, as their son whimpered and cried.

There was no greater pain than this.

They couldn't do a single thing to help Stiles, his senses where gone and he could only feel the pain inside his cancerous body.

It was agony.

His death was so unbearably slow, but it was also far too quick. Suffering in agony for one moment...and blissfully blank the next.

..........

"Mommy?" Stiles asked, voice a bare whisper. He couldn't even open his eyes.

"Yes honey?" She asked, and her voice wasn't much louder. Because all she wanted to do was cry. She needed to be here, for him in his last moments. Like she always had been.

"You can be a princess now."

And that was when she started to cry.

.......

His whole body stilled in their cradling arms, relaxing into their hold: just like he did the day he was born. Crying out to the world, breathing his first breaths.

But now he was silent.

Their baby boy was dead. His body was listless. His eyes lifeless.

In those few moments just after, they numbly watched as the steroid bloating faded away, softening his previously tight and red cheeks... And making him look younger than he already was.

Stiles was their little boy...and he was dead.

And that was when: the tightly wound grenade - so casually known as grief - exploded in their chests.

And took them away.


	28. Drunk Driver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It hurt.
> 
> Because Scott healed.
> 
> Stiles didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chappie, I'll explain at the bottom! :)

_You showed me a lot of things,_   
_I learned a lot I didn't know,_   
_But you forgot to teach me one last thing:_   
_How to let you go._

Scott stared up at the ceiling.

He saw the outlines of the glow in the dark stars Stiles and he had stuck on his roof when they were just little boys. Little innocent, healthy boys.

He shut his eyes, and tried to think of something else. But his mind was filled with memories he couldn't have again.

Because it had happened so fast. All those memories gone in a instant.

Taken by a drunk driver

 

_I know you didn't mean to leave me,  
Sometimes we have no choice,_

 

It ached with everything he had. And it burned in his chest like heartburn that never went away, like acid eating away at him. But it was also cold, like ice setting in the bottom of his stomach.

It _hurt_. Because Scott healed.

Stiles didn't.

 

_I miss being your brother,  
Hearing my name called by your voice,_

 

His hearted burned and his stomach turned to ice. And it had been that way since Scott woke up at Deaton's after a screech and almighty crash. 

He'd woken up alone.

Because everyone else was with Stiles as he died.

And Scott would have given anything to have been with Stiles, at least for those last moments. Because then he'd at least know if Stiles forgave him.

 

_I wish I got to say "I Love You"  
Before you were given to the sky._

 

Scott wanted it more than anything. More than his own life.

He wanted to talk to Stiles for one last time.

Because they'd been fighting in the car, over something petty. Scott couldn't really remember what. It seemed so insignificant now. And he felt so guilty, and he'd almost just apologised there. But, he was stubborn and wanted to have the last word.

But then the car came, careening down the intersection and t-boned the jeep...Drivers side.

They rolled, and Scott blacked out.

Scott never got to apologise.

And there was no greater time where Scott hated being a werewolf more than now. Because if he hadn't, he'd be dead too.

Dead with Stiles.

That seemed a better option, because now he just didn't know what to do.

And Stiles wasn't around to guide him through it.

 

_If God could grant me one last wish  
I'd ask to say "Goodbye"_

 

There was a funeral, and then three days later a trial. Because the drunk driver had survived. The drunk man had killed his best friend that wasn't even old enough to drink.

Scott testified as the Sheriff yelled at Stiles' murderer. He'd had to leave the court too cool down.

The man got manslaughter, and charged with drink driving. He wasn't going to die, but he'd be away for a very long time. The Sheriff cried in relief when the sentence was read out.

Scott supposed he should feel like justice had been served.

But the sound of the hammer hitting the gavel just echoed hollowly in his chest. Echoed in the place Stiles had been.

The place in his heart his best friend had held before he'd ripped it from his chest.

 

_You always meant a lot to me,  
I could never love you less,_

 

Scott remembered meeting Stiles when he was four. In a sand box. They'd been fighting then too, because he'd taken Stiles' bucket.

Fought when they met and fought when they parted. But, parted was too gentle a word.

Stiles had been ripped from him.

But fighting hadn't been them. Scott wished they relationship could have been seen for everything that had been good. The food they'd shared, the games they played. The laughter, the hugs. The _smiles_.

God, he missed Stiles' smile.

It had only been a few weeks. And yet the memories seemed too old, too faded already.

He was such a god damn nice person. He forgave Scott for taking his bucket, and he'd never stopped forgiving Scott. Even when he didn't deserve it, and even when he truly hurt Stiles.

Stiles always forgave him.

So that was why he thought maybe Stiles might have forgiven him for their fight that night.

...But Scott could never forgive himself for not saying sorry. Or telling him he loved him. Because they had talked so much, Stiles especially.

But there had been so many things left unsaid.

Scott had nobody to talk to anymore. The others offered support, but he could let anyone else support him right now...Because it had always been Stiles' job. And that felt like he was replacing him.

He couldn't do that. Not ever. Stiles was the only one. Stiles was his Best Friend Forever. He would stay that way until the day Scott died. And then some.

He pinky promised.

And Stiles had told him it was forever and ever, smiling widely with a gap in his teeth.

It had seemed so long then. Their lives out ahead of them, but Scott realised it had all been too short. Forever was not long enough.

Stiles deserved more than he got.

Scott would never forgive himself for so many things that he'd done. Regret the things he didn't say. But, at least...he could remember the good times. The fun times.

He could live in his memories.

Everyone around him said it was unhealthy. Said he needed to wake up and join life.

But there was nothing to wake up to.

He'd always put Allison before Stiles, but now he couldn't bare to look at her. Because she was a personification of the time he'd spent away from Stiles. Away from him, wasting time he'd now never get back.

He'd rather live in his memories.

From when they were little boys, playing and exploring. Live in the past, where everything was good. He knew he was fading. But he didn't care.

He'd rather spend this time with Stiles in the only way he could.

Not clinging to the time he'd never get back.

 

_I now know it's true when they say:  
"He only takes the best"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made this a quick chapter so I could announce two things:
> 
> 1) We are at 100,000 WORDS!! Thankyou for the support guys!!
> 
> 2) You know my friend that had been in a dark place in Chapter 23? The one where I didn't know what he was going through? The awesome boy? HE IS NOW HEAD BOY. I repeat. HEAD BOY. He's representing the entire student body along with one of my other girl friends as Head Girl. He is going places, I tell you! I'm so proud of him, and he is one of the strongest people I know.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	29. Nogitsune #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insanity was a strange thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know with this chapter. It's freaking weird. 
> 
> I'm getting back into sad writing after binge finishing Mr Hale and I may have fallen off the edge.
> 
> I'll have to climb my way back into normalcy.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy if you can :)
> 
> Warning: Weird insanity idk  
> Song: Bird Set Free by Sia

_Clipped wings, I was a broken thing_  
Had a voice, but I could not sing  
You would wind me down  
I struggled on the ground

Insanity was a strange thing.

Didn't know you were going insane until you were gone. You didn't know you were walking down that path until it was too late. Somedays, Stiles was still completely convinced he was fine.

But he was not fine.

Well, not exactly. It was a bit of a understatement, but that was just his interpretation of it. The doctors said things like _Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Schizophrenia and Bi-polar Disorder._

Stiles laughed in their faces.They didn't know the half of it.

Because Stiles was just _really fucking insane_.

But you couldn't exactly tell the doctors you had been fucked over by a evil fox spirt and now your mind didn't quite work right.

He was absolved of the deaths by his - **It wasn't me** \- hands on grounds of his lack of sanity. But now he was left to rot in Eichen house. In the closed unit.

Good one.

Put him back in the place that started it all.

...Like that would ever fix him.

 

 _So lost, the line had been crossed_  
Had a voice, had a voice but I could not talk  
You held me down  
I struggle to fly now

 

'Insanity: A spectrum of behaviours characterised by certain abnormal mental or behavioural patterns'

Stiles smiled, sitting in his chair. Somebody was sitting in front of him, speaking in low tones: but he couldn't hear them. It was like he was a different plane of this reality. They were there, and he was here.

**I'm in here!**

He was the only constant thing in this room of flashing images and alternating realities. This room filled with screams and chemicals.

He could feel the scream in the walls. He could hear them, if he got close enough. But that was rare in itself. Because Stiles didn't move.

**I can't move**

He just sat in the chair that they left him in.

 

 _But there's a scream inside that we all try to hide_  
We hold on so tight, we cannot deny  
Eats us alive, oh it eats us alive

 

Stiles wasn't your usual type of insane. He was completely aware, he just chose to be blank. There was nothing to live for, nothing to fight with. All he had was white walls and dark shadows.

His mind still worked, but the darkness was slowly closing in. And he was loosing parts of himself to it. It was slowly seeping in like water between the cracks of his mind.

**I'm trapped in here**

He had nothing to fight against it, nothing for him to focus on to try and fight it off.

They just didn't understand that his wasn't something you could cure with some alone time. That didn't work for anything. Not even the normal mental illnesses.

This place was just for the ones they'd given up on.

**Save me**

 

 _Yes, there's a scream inside that we all try to hide_  
We hold on so tight, but I don't wanna die, no  
I don't wanna die.

 

Stiles' mind didn't make the right connections anymore. Neurones fired, but it's was all aimless, fruitless. What was the point? There was nothing to do but sit.

**I can't fight alone**

The darkness left by the Nogitsune was eating at him. He was screaming, trapped in his own mind. Grappling at the loose threads of his remaining sanity. Grappling at the elusive light which faded little by little everyday.

**I'm slowly fading**

His mind was screaming. He was screaming for somebody to save him from himself. Scott, Dad, Lydia, Derek. Anyone. Screaming and crying, desperation seeping to his core.

But his mouth never uttered a word. His face was forever blank, empty as the room he sat in. Nobody would ever guess there was a war in his mind.

He remained: Sitting. Crying. Waiting. _Screaming_.

**Don't give up on me**

...Because he was dying while he was still alive.

 

_And I don't care if I sing off key  
I find myself in my melodies_

 

"I don't wanna die." Stiles muttered. **Don't let me die here**

"No, you don't have to. It's okay. You don't have to die. You can get better." Somebody said. Stiles just shook his head.

They just didn't understand.

They kept telling him he could get better. That, if he chose, he could walk out of here someday.

...But he didn't have a choice.

**I need you Scott**

He didn't get to chose if he fought of if he gave up. He didn't have a choice if he healed or if he didn't.

Stiles didn't get to choose if he died.

That decision had been taken from him the moment they shoved him in this chair....and left him to listen to the voices.

With only the shadow of a demon in his mind for company.

"You did this to me." **I'm sorry Scott**

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I had no choice Stiles. We couldn't help you, and this place is made for... A person like you."

"Oh, so what person am I? Insane? Bipolar? No, I was fucking possessed! I was haunted by a evil Japanese fox spirit, used and broken! And, now...you've committed its final deed. You've left me to rot." **Please get me out of here**

"....It's for your own good, buddy."

"Don't you fucking dare, Scott. You cast me aside when I needed you to to put me together. You shoved me down when I was coming up to breathe. Now, I'm drowning in insanity." **I need you**

"So, congratu-fucking-lations, Scott." Stiles hissed though grinning teeth, staring with pure bitter insanity in his eyes.

"You've killed me."

**...I'm fading**

 

 _Now I fly, hit the high notes_  
I have a voice, hear me roar tonight  
You held me down  
But I fought back loud

 

"Stiles" Stiles said to the silence. The room echoed in reply. Stiles _grinned_.

**Please help me**

He wasn't even fuckin real, man. His name didn't exist. It wasn't even him. He wasn't him.

**Don't let me go**

He was just the empty shell of the boy that had once been in this vessel of skin and bone. He wasn't him. He wasn't Stiles. Stiles wasn't real.

The boy he had been died standing over his mother's grave.

**I'm still in here**

From then he was Stiles, the invented name. The new person. New identity. He wasn't the little boy anymore. He was Stiles: the ADHD riddled loner with intelligence too large...too curious.

**I'm still your Stiles**

He'd been forced to grow up too fast.

To grow into something he wasn't. And now even that didn't exist anymore. He wasn't Stiles. He wasn't too curious or too smart.

He was just a empty shell of skin and bone, filled only by the war between light and dark.

**I don't want to die**

 

 _But there's a scream inside that we all try to hide_  
We hold on so tight, we cannot deny  
Eats us alive, oh it eats us alive

 

"Was it me?" **It _wasn't_ me**

Stiles asked himself repeatedly. Was it him, or was it the Nogitsune. He didn't know.

"Who am I?" **I'm Stiles**

He didn't know.

The line between himself and the Nogitsune was blurred and distorted.

**I'm losing**

And he...he just couldn't fight it anymore. It was too hard...to fruitless. He couldn't fight an unseen enemy, but he had tried. God, he tried. For his dad, for his friends, for his own life...but, now he was running out of reasons to keep fighting

He couldn't do it anymore.

He couldn't tell between what was him and what wasn't.

And he had warned them. He warned them he couldn't, not without them. And yet he was in here, and they were out there.

His mind had decayed.

And he couldn't fight anymore.

**I'm dying**

 

_Yes, there's a scream inside that we all try to hide  
We hold on so tight, but I don't wanna die, no_

 

He was ~~Stiles~~   **a murderer**

His dad ~~loved him~~   **hated him**

He had ~~friends~~ **nobody**

He was ~~loved~~   **loathed**

He was a **Slaughterer** **  
Loner  
         Killer  
       Idiot**

**...Dead**

 

 _I don't wanna die_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Yeah. That was weird
> 
> Idk
> 
> See you next time with a mourning Scott. I haven't cried that much writing something in a while.
> 
> Anywho.
> 
> Later dudes


	30. For Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know I told you I'd look after him, and I totally am, bro. But, you know me, I just had to buy that new FIFA game. You remember that one?" Scott asked with a small, dying smile.
> 
> "...You wanted to play it too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years Eve!!! I come bearing gifts of sadness.
> 
> I'm sorry.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter guys. I know you like/hate/treasure/detest Scott+Stiles pain :)

"I know I told you I'd look after him, and I totally am, bro. But, you know me, I just had to buy that new FIFA game. You remember that one?" Scott asked with a small, dying smile.

"...You wanted to play it too."

Scott swallowed.

"So when I saw it, I just had to buy it. I couldn't leave it there...But, I promised you. I've been going over there every Friday like you asked, putting some healthy meals in the fridge and cleaning up a bit. Just like you would have done, if you were here."

The stone grave stood out like a sore thumb amongst the pure white snow surrounding them. But then again...Stiles had never really fit in.

"I kept ringing you, did you know that? I still do. I rang you on the morning of your funeral, expecting you to pick up. All I got was your voicemail."

_'Stiles 'the badass' Stilinski is currently off doing something either stupid or dangerous, probably both. And if you're looking for Scott, he's probably with me.'_

"I wish I was with you now. I don't care where you are, I just want to be with you. There's just... _so much_ I didn't get to say."

Scott felt cold, seeping into him from the snow around him.

Like it was trying to drain him of everything he had left.

"I ring you all the time, because there's always this tiny bit of unfaltering _hope_ that you might pick up. You don't though, you never do. So I just lay in bed, listening to your voicemail wondering why I'm still here when you aren't."

"Sometimes I just ring to hear your voice. It's still the same, has been for months now...Like you didn't grow up at all. It confuses me sometimes, because I've grown up and you haven't...And we always did everything together."

"I...I can't even see you anymore. And it aches, it _burns_ , Stiles. It hurts like nothing else, because you've always been there for me. Always and forever, remember?"

The stone didn't remember anything. Only the body beneath it did.

"You were going to be my best man, my best friend for life. You _promised_ me. You promised you'd never leave...Now all I have is a call list of nothing but you and your repeating voicemail."

Scott sighed, but it came out like a whimper.

"Do you know that I've called you more since you were gone than I did while you were still here? My phone was filled with useless junk, meaningless texts to Allison and the same exact text from Derek every time he needed to see me."

"...Now I see that all I ever needed was _you_."

"You were there before any of this even began, and you stayed. From the dangerous fights to the crying on my bedroom floor, you've been there for it all. I've lost so much, Stiles...and I'd just never thought I'd have to lose you too."

"But I did. You were taken like a freaking gift God decided he wanted back."

Scott tried to compose himself. There was nobody here but him and what was left of Stiles: The way it had always been.

And he was glad.

Because nobody else would see him cry.

"Mom says I need to accept that you are gone. But you are my brother...you can't be gone"

"She tried to get John to disconnect your phone, but I screamed and cried until they gave up. I'm such a fucking child, Stiles. You were always the smarter one, and now I need you to tell me what to do."

"I'm alive and you are dead, and yet I still need your help like a tiny little toddler. I have all the resources and time to make use of my life and help myself, but it just seems useless with you gone. You had it so much worse, you are dead and I can't even tie my fucking _shoelaces_ without thinking about you."

"But, I don't want to grow up. Not when you didn't get the chance." Scott looked up at the clouds moving across the sky.

"However...time still goes on, doesn't it?" He muttered, as though aspirated, but feeling all too helpless. He stared into the sky for a moment longer. He tightened his scarf, pulling it up over his chin.

He still felt too cold.

"I get what you mean now, when you told me about your mom. About how it felt when she was gone. Like nothing felt right. Like she was still supposed to be sitting on her favourite chair or singing you a lullaby as you slept. Like she should still be there, _deserved_ to be there, but you knew she wasn't."

"I feel it all now too. In everything I see, I see you. School is the worst, though. I see you in every wall and desk and even the cracks in the vinyl flooring. There's too much of you there, too much life that is now no longer lived."

"You were such a big part of my world, and without you it feels like everything is ripped in half, split down the middle. Everything I do and see is so muted, dull. You took the wonder and excitement of life with you, and now I'm left with everything it hid."

"I'm only living half a life, because you were the rest of me."

Scott felt the ache in his chest intensify, threatening to burst. He didn't let it.

"You filled in the cracks in my personality, smoothed over the gaps in my soul. And now it's like I've been stripped raw, the hard skin I'd built to resist pain and hurt has now been ripped from me. Because it was you Stiles, it was always you."

"You were my everything. My other half. My brother. Now you've been ripped from me, torn me in half and it hurts so much. You protected me and sheltered me the best you could, but you only died in the end."

"I love you, Stiles. I love you so _goddamn_ much."

The ache burst from him.

He sobbed.

He didn't cry though, there was no tears left. His chest dry heaved with his guttural and pained breaths, the ache _ripping_ through his throat and leaving a burn in his chest. The sobs were violent, dry and raw. And he couldn't stop them. He couldn't even cry. The tears would be a smooth and cool relief to the grief burning in his soul and drying his throat.

He'd fallen so far that tears were now a saving grace.

He sat in front of his best friends grave, surrounded by fields of white covered ground and trees. He was so small, a little speck in the all consuming white...And yet he felt so much pain it felt like the earth was collapsing.

Scott had almost died many times.

But it had never hurt as much as this.

Because Stiles was never meant to die. He wasn't even supposed to leave Scott, even if it was just to go to another college. They were supposed to have each others back for life.

Stiles promised him: they had a bro-wedding when they were seven. Scott gave him dirt as a wedding present. Stiles buried a time capsule in the woods...Now Scott had to dig up their time capsule alone on his twenty-first birthday.

And it would only serve as a reminder that Stiles never grew up.

"Last Wednesday was your seventeenth birthday." Scott whispered with his voice shaking, his surroundings silent. "The school held a candle-light vigil for you and there were candles covering the gym floor, their flames casting flickering light on the roof. Lydia sang Amazing Grace and it was really pretty. Even Jackson went and Danny cried. I did too. "

"...Everyone really misses you. It's too _quiet_ here." Scott choked on the lump in his throat.

"I miss you." He sobbed. "I want you _back_ , Stiles."

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

"But you can't come back." He said quietly, feeling like he was fraying at the edges. "I know that."

"I know you would want me to be happy, and that you told me not to cry. But I can't Stiles, not yet. I still have to cry over the times we won't have, because it is more than you I have to mourn...it was us."

"Us. Together. Brothers for life. Not only did I lose you...but I lost that too."

Scott looked at his hands, numb from the cold

"I felt the exact moment you slipped away from me, slipped from my hands. It was like a tug in my gut as you were pulled from this plane to the next, and it hurt. But, it didn't hurt as much as the crippling pain in my chest did once you had gone."

"Because just knowing that you were gone was what hurt the most."

"You were just gone. And the body in my hands was just an empty shell, void of everything you had been. You were just gone Stiles. _Gone_. You slipped between my fingers like sand, leaving just empty eyes and bloody cheeks. You left me, you disappeared before my fucking _eyes_ and I....I-"

Scott took a deep steadying breath.

He looked away from the grave stone, like people did when they watched a sad movie so they didn't have to watch everything fall apart.

But it still taunted him from the corner of his eye.

"I will be okay, I think. I think I will be able to live through this. But I won't come out unscarred, Stiles. I won't be the way I was. I never will be...Because you won't be here to fix me."

"I will do as you asked, my friend. I will care for your dad because you can't. I will age and I will grow. I will live even although you cannot."

Scott bit his lip, crushing some snow harshly in his fist.

"I _will_ graduate, Stiles. I will work hard, so all the hours you spent tutoring me won't go to waste. I won't let any of our time together come to nothing, because every _second_ you breathed beside me was worth something."

Scott rolled his lip over his teeth, the pain grounding him.

"I will become the man you wanted me to be, Stiles. Because I know you have always believed in me, even when I didn't."

"I won't let you down, not again."

Scott gingerly caressed the stone, fingers brushing over his best friends name set there.

"I know what I've done. I can't fix that. But, I promise I will never make the same mistake. I will never lose sight of what matters most."

"I will go through life, knowing your spirit will always live beside me...even after you left."

Scott could imagine Stiles now, standing next to him, and hand on his shoulder as they both stared sadly at his grave.

"You never truly left did you? I know you are still here, watching me. Looking after me, like you always have. But I have to do this myself. I won't make you watch me crumble. I won't let you watch me fall. I've learnt. I promise to never do what I did, knowing it will will never fix what happened to you. I will never forget you."

"Because now all I have left is a phone that will never ring....And I will never go a day without it reminding me that you are dead and gone."

"This is my punishment." Scott nodded, accepting this fate. "And all I can say is I'm sorry, I'm so  _sorry_ , Stiles. It's all I can do, the only words I can say"

"But sorry doesn't bring you back."

Scott moved to stand up, hand on the gravestone, thinking of what else to say. The cold stone waited patiently.

"The lacrosse team dedicated their last victory to you." Scott said, now remembering. The last victory of the season had been an eventful one...Even with the absence of Stiles sitting in the bench cheering him on. "Everyone talks about your goal in the game you played last year. They talk about you like you are a hero."

He stopped for a minute, remembering the way Stiles shunned that word, thinking he was undeserving of such a title.

But not all heroes wore capes. 

"You say you weren't a hero Stiles. I know you didn't like being called a hero because you thought you didn't deserve it. But you were a hero, Stiles. You _were_."

Scott placed a hand on the top of the grave, looking into the distance. He smiled sadly, seeing Stiles standing there in the mist with a typical happy grin on his face. It _ached_.

"...Because you saved me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't cried this much writing something in a long while. But that was probs bc I was listening to a new sad song I found. Damn. 
> 
> Anyway, Happy New Years guys. I'll be graduating this new year so wish me luck :)


	31. Frontotemporal Dementia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news.
> 
> It came with little sound but caused a deafening explosion.
> 
> John drove Stiles home from the hospital, barely focusing on what he was doing. He didn't care about driving, if they crashed and died it would only be a mercy to them both. Stiles wouldn't have to feel the slowly spreading darkness of approaching death and John wouldn't have to watch it happen.
> 
> It would be so much simpler to just die in a car accident. Something unexpected and mundane, not this slowly consuming poison that John knew was going to kill them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY!! 
> 
> Okay:  
> 1) I'm sorry I haven't posted for like a whole month, I've been on holidays and all sorts.  
> 2) I'm also sorry for this chapter. It's twelve and a half thousand words of pain. I've been working on it while I've been away.
> 
> And with that, I'll let you enjoy this chapter. It's a little different from what I'm used to but I'm playing around with the idea :)
> 
> (If you don't understand, each divison goes between when Stiles was alive and after he died for most of the story)

When Claudia died, all John wanted to do was curl up in that grave with her. He wanted to die, because her death had been the most _unfair_ thing in the world: and he just didn't want to live anymore.

But he had a son, and he needed his father. So he didn't give in.

He placed her things in a box then he went down to make his son breakfast. He picked him up from school listening to his excited ramblings about the things he learned, and he tucked him into his dinosaur comforter at night.

But, now. He knew. He felt that same feeling from all those years ago so much harsher, digging into his healed over scars and cutting deeper than ever before.

Because his sixteen year old son died.

...From the same thing that took his mother.

And was more than just unfair this time around. It was tragic. She at least got to see thirty and he died just shy of his seventeen birthday. It was fucking _tragic_.

John wanted to go with him. Wanted nothing more for this life than to curl up and die, just so he could see his son smile one more time.

He was all John had left. And he was gone.

The horrible destroying and taking disease was in their blood, not his. In his wife and son, not him. They died and he had to stay behind to pick up the pieces.

Because now there was nothing left but graves and regrets.

 

________

 

The news.

It came with little sound but caused a deafening explosion.

John drove Stiles home from the hospital, barely focusing on what he was doing. He didn't care about driving, if they crashed and died it would only be a mercy to them both. Stiles wouldn't have to feel the slowly spreading darkness of approaching death and John wouldn't have to watch it happen.

It would be so much simpler to just die in a car accident. Something unexpected and mundane, not this slowly consuming poison that John knew was going to kill them both.

Because after watching everyone you loved die, were you really alive anymore?

John drove, not focusing on the road but also not focusing on anything else.

Because John couldn't look at his son. He couldn't.

Even seeing the silent, hunched over frame of his son in his peripheral vision made him want to jump from the moving vehicle. They both knew that this was going to destroy them, and there was not even the smallest sliver of hope.

John just couldn't bare to see the hopelessness on his son's face.

They knew, through and through. If it had been another illness, there might have been some surprise and confusion leaving room for that traitorous hope.

Here, now, there was none.

There was shock, but no surprise. Diseases like this were known to be genetic. There was disbelief, but no confusion. Because things like this weren't supposed to happen to a child...To his son.

But then again...it wasn't supposed to happen to his wife either.

They were just numb, accepting of this turn of fate. There was nothing else they could do. No threat to fight, no action to take. John would just take his son home, watch him walk to his room and gently close the door. Then John would walk downstairs, grab his whiskey.

And try to drown himself as he listened to his son's sobs echo down the empty halls.

 

_________

 

Coming home the night Stiles died was the worst night of his life.

Because that was it. Stiles was dead. Never would John see that beautiful smile spread across that face or those expressive eyes light up with a new idea.

He slowly moved out of the room, like a zombie. He opened his liquor cabinet numbly, focusing on pouring his drink into the glass. He watched the flow of the dark liquid, filling and filling his glass.

_'Don't drink too much Dad'_

"I'm not." He muttered, capping the expensive liquor then putting it away. He shut the cabinet gently, a small thump in the silence. He looked around the room, moving over to his chair in the corner. He sat down on his chair, staring at nothing.

He took a sip.

He tasted the liquid, letting it slide down his throat. It burned and yet was so sweetly numb all at once.

Rewarding and punishing at the same time.

John took another sip, letting it stay in his mouth longer to feel the burn, so he could feel something. It was a familiar pain, though. He was used to it, especially on nights like this.

It was the pain of mourning.

' _I'm sorry Dad. I'm sorry she died.'_

"I'm sorry _you_ did." He muttered over the rim of his drink, but his voice was deafening in the silence. He took another sip. The silence was loud, with no sound his ears were full of the irritating white noise. He hated it.

This house had only ever been this quiet the night his wife died.

He never liked the silence, but now all its connotations made him want to scream. Because silence happened in the wake of death.

And his son had left the earth this night.

He wasn't here anymore. His mind had been infected with illness, his body was in the morgue and his soul was with his mother.

God. He missed Claudia. He missed her laugh and her smile. He missed her love. He needed her her, to help him as he mourned their son. But she was nothing but a memory. And now Stiles was too; just a memory of a boy that was once his son. The only way Stiles would live now would be though his father memories.

Because he was only a memory now.

Nobody else watched him grow up, nobody else knew his sons strange appeal and aura. And nobody else ever would. He was the only one left to remember. There was no new memories to be made, only old ones to reflect on.

Stiles was just a memory now.

Stiles was...dead.

And John would only be able to remember him.

That was all he could do. He couldn't tuck him into bed or read him a bedtime story to show he loved Stiles. He couldn't help him with his homework or curl up in the couch with him to watch Star Wars for the tenth time. He couldn't be a father, couldn't show his love in any other way.

He could only remember his son.

And it just seemed so cruel.

Because all he could do was remember his smile, remember his laugh. Remember his clumsiness and his endearing stubbornness.

Because his sixteen year old son died today.

 _God damnit_ Stiles didn't deserve to die.

He yelled in a sudden inexplainable rage, flinging his glass at the wall. It shattered on impact, sending glass and alcohol across the wall and smashing onto the floor. Glass skittered across the floor, tinkling.

It wasn't _enough_.

Everything around him was too whole, too stable and too clean, when he was so irrevocably broken.

He felt like shattered glass in a room full of shining mirrors, relfecting and judging his every broken angle.

He leapt up from his chair and began tearing down the bookshelves and kicking around furniture: letting out his anger. He tore open his liquor cabinet, tearing the bottles out and smashing them on the floor. Once all the bottles were gone, he tore down the cabinet.

He smashed it on the ground, watching the smashed glass leak the liquid across the floor.

It was never enough.

John screamed into the silent air at the sheer unfairness of it all, collapsing upon his pile of destruction with his head in his arms. He stilled after many minutes, anger leaving as quickly as it came: his breath evening over time. He looked through the window with tears in his eyes, looking up at the dark moonless sky.

Because his little boy had left the world to join his mother amongst the stars.

 

________

 

Stiles laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling above is bed where little faded shapes marked the paint. He remembered that the marks were little glow in the dark stars on his ceiling, his mom had put them up when he was seven and just got into Star Wars. He'd helped her place them strategically.

When she died they went down, removed from his life to prevent the heartache it caused at the sight of them.

The outlines still teased Stiles of what he lost.

Stiles knew his dad would never be able to remove Stiles' room liked he'd tried with his mother's stars. He'd never be able to remove this part of their home that was so full of Stiles even after he was gone.

It would be in the corner of his eye, like the faded outlines of the stars were for Stiles. Gone, but never truly forgotten. It was a ache you couldn't place and a pain that wasn't physical.

And despite everything else, all the horrible things that kept Stiles awake at night: Stiles wasn't afraid of dying the most.

He was afraid of leaving his dad behind.

...With nothing but the hollowed shell of the place that they called their home.

 

________

 

Days passed, weeks. And the Sheriff had gotten the distinct look of a man who just lost his son. The man that now had nothing.

There was no shortage of sympathy gifts floating in from people he hadn't talked to in years. Some of his old college friends even dropped by.

Death brought people together.

His son's _death_ brought him closer to friends.

And to enjoy their company felt like he enjoying Stiles' absence from this earth...and John just couldn't do that. He would never be thankful for the death of his son. And while that may be, he still appreciated their thoughts to feed him.

Even if the food just made him sick.

He couldn't even look at the mountains of Tupperware containers in his fridge without hearing his son's voice in his ear.

_'Don't eat too much of the potato bake; it's not good for you, Dad'_

"I'm not going to eat it, Stiles." He muttered, shutting the fridge. He wasn't going to eat _any_ of it, he couldn't.

...Because Stiles wasn't cooking it for him anymore.

 

________

 

Derek kept watch over Beacon Hills.

And if his path of focus went occasionally past the Stilinski and McCall houses that was just a coincidence.

But it just happened to be a night were Derek realised he was needed. He wasn't used to being truly needed, just occasionally desired for somebody else's benefit.

Because he was in the woods behind the Stilinski house when he noticed a irregularity in one of the inhabitants heartbeats. Derek stopped in his tracks, deciding it couldn't hurt to check as he moved to climb through the window.

And it wasn't what he expected.

"Go away Derek." The voice said as soon as Derek entered, harder than Derek ever heard it. It was defensive.

Hiding something.

"Is everything okay." He asked instead, or rather demanded. Derek was abrupt in the face of another hurting, despite his best efforts otherwise. He didn't now how to comfort people.

He'd been alone too long.

"You can hear that I'm not okay, Derek." Stiles growled, and Derek had to admit it frightened him a little because the aggression wasn't right...it wasn't Stiles. "Go away."

And Derek was thoroughly tempted to. To just take a step back and climb out that wind. To disappear into the woods and pretend this never happened.

But...he couldn't.

Stiles was pack, despite all else. He felt like pack. Stiles wasn't his wolf, not like Isaac was, but he was pack. Derek couldn't run away from one of his own.

He had been running too long.

"...Stiles." He said instead, trying to keep his voice unthreatening.

Stiles breathing continued to elevate, faster and faster as his heart pumped loud and furiously. He was gasping at air, like his lungs couldn't get enough oxygen. And Derek saw it for what it was. A panic attack.

But despite that being so utterly horrific on its own...it wasn't the worst thing Derek saw.

Stiles had a _gun_ in his hands.

"Stiles." He said again, not moving any closer. Because he understood, _God_ , he understood. Derek had shot himself in the head the week after Laura died. He woke up the next day to spit the bullet out of his mouth.

...Stiles wouldn't be so lucky.

And Derek knew that it didn't matter what had caused it or why Stiles was like this...all that mattered was that he got out of it.

"I'm dying." Stiles hissed through his breaths like he was spitting poison.

"No, you aren't." Derek said, edging forward gently so Stiles wouldn't even notice that he'd moved.

"De. Men. Tia." Stiles growled between breaths that were only getting faster.

Derek swallowed. That explained the scent of grief and alcohol from downstairs...And he suddenly felt so awfully sorry for the Sheriff. But he didn't have time to think about that: Stiles was suffocating on his own anxiety.

The gun in his hands was shaking violently, and Derek was not ready to watch a bullet go through Stiles' brain. Not ever.

He had to act. _Now_.

Derek leapt forward, ripping the gun from his hands and throwing it onto Stiles' bed. Stiles didn't even try to stop it, empty hands just trembling like his reality was falling apart. And it probably was.

Because it was obvious his choice to kill himself was just a terrifying as what lay ahead.

Derek just grabbed Stiles then, unknowing and mind racing. Stiles needed to breathe, to reconnect. He pulled Stiles shaking hands and put them on his own heart, his grip was too tight but Stiles wasn't noticing.

"Match your breathing Stiles. Feel my heartbeat, match it."

The effect wasn't instantaneous, but the boy stopped trying to curl up in a ball. His limbs loosened, nerves releasing and he went limp. Derek gently used his free hand to hold Stiles upright against the wall. He held him by the shoulder, and made sure not to put any pressure on his chest. 

The panic did not recede gently or smoothly, because the cause of it was in his head and Derek could feel every time Stiles starting falling back into the panic.

"Focus only on breathing Stiles. On inhaling, exhaling." Derek tried. It seemed to help a little.

And Derek tried not to think about how quiet Stiles was.

Stiles blinked what seemed like hours later, the haze gone from his eyes. He looked slightly confused, and Derek let Stiles hands drop from his chest. But he didn't let go of Stiles' shoulder.

His eyes roamed, and Derek angled his body so Stiles couldn't see the gun. Stiles would remember what he'd almost done, but until then he didn't need to be reminded.

"Derek?" He asked after a minute, finally looking at Derek like he'd just noticed he was there.

And Derek gently let his hand fall from Stiles's shoulder.

Stiles laid against the wall, legs sprawling out limply in front of him. His head rested back against the wall, and he stared up at the ceiling.

Derek was pleased to note his heartbeat stayed steady.

He stood, moving back from Stiles.

It was silence again for a few minutes, and despite wanting to go: Derek knew he couldn't disappear yet.

Derek knew Stiles probably wouldn't try to kill himself again, but he still took the gun from the bed and put it in the back of his jeans while Stiles stared at the ceiling.

"I'm going to die soon." Stiles said as Derek was putting the gun in his jeans, not looking away from the ceiling. His voice was loud in the silence but it was still too quiet.

"But not today." Derek said. It was a question as much as it was a statement.

Stiles head rolled, and then Stiles was looking at him with one dark eye. He stared at Derek for a while, his one eyed stare was not piercing or comforting...just watching.

"Not today." He finally answered, and Derek felt like he'd passed something.

But, he did not feel any relief.

...Because he had only saved Stiles to die another day.

 

_________

 

Stiles' picture was up on the pin up board in the hall, a little memorial for the student that had left too soon.

His smiling face and bright eyes were frozen in time, thousands of students flew like blurs of movement and colour. Only he remained, passed by all with only a sad look towards his too young face.

Because life passed him by.

There was a small pottering of flowers underneath the picture, slowly ageing and browning as time moved on. They died too, and were cleared away.

Time moved on.

And yet Stiles Stilinski stayed behind.

 

_________

 

Stiles was still here.

But everyone knew his time was coming to an end.

He was a light that burned so bright, Derek had feared he might burn out too quickly. He was like a supernova, a bright flash that faded and died in an instant.

Supernovas were known for burning brighter but falling shorter, and some part of Derek always knew Stiles' bright fire was going to burn out. This world was cruel. For people like Stiles, it snuffed out their light...It fed on their forgiveness and their fight.

Derek thought back to the still silence in the room the night of Stiles' panic attack...and he thought maybe the boy's light was already starting to fade.

No.

Stiles remained silent, staring at his idle thumbs. He wouldn't say anything.

But Derek had already seen it. Stiles didn't need to say anything.

And now that he'd thought it, he couldn't look at Stiles without thinking it. He knew now, and he couldn't stop thinking about it.

It was too late to try and pretend.

It was too late for Stiles.

Too late now to fix. Too early to be oblivious...Just in time to watch him slowly fade. Because now all Derek could do was watch the boy fall apart.

He felt like he was watching a train wreck in slow motion.

And he was completely useless to stop it.

 

________

 

Derek felt useless, aimless.

Stiles was gone, another of his pack was gone. And he was trying to deny the hollow feeling in his chest.

He ignored it.

But that didn't stop it from eating him alive.

 

________

 

"It's okay, we will figure this out." Scott said, looking determined. Stiles just told him he was dying and Scott took it like he did every other problem they faced. "We always do."

Stiles smiled like he believed...but he _knew_.

They tried, but it was all luck every time they made it through. They tried to figure things out, make plans and stick to them. They never could: because every success and survival was pure and fleeting luck, something Stiles knew wasn't going to stick around this time. Because they didn't _'figure it out'._

They really didn't.

 

________

 

There was a point in those last few months where Stiles was trying to convince himself he wasn't dying.

That he was _fine_.

He shucked any sign that there was death in their house, rejected the mention of it. He acted like the loud and spastic boy he had been, even with his dad. He always had a bright, carefree smile on his face.

But even John could see it cracking.

_Don't tell me I'm dying, because I don't want to know._

John knew he was coping, in a twisted sort of way. John knew it wasn't healthy, but what did he know? He only watched the people he loved die, he didn't know how to die properly.

Like there even was a way to die properly.

John knew there were ways to prepare to die. He'd researched them to death when his wife got sick. Things like finding closure and all sorts.

But what closure was there to find for a sixteen year old boy?

He barely lived enough to be ready to close anything. And, besides, Stiles would never be able to say goodbye to his friends. Not when they'd fought to stay together, against everything that tried to tear them apart.

John knew Stiles wouldn't, couldn't, say goodbye.

He was too young to say goodbye.

There would never be any real closure for Stiles, and he was dealing with it in the only way he knew how.

And John was in no position to judge how his son handled the fact that he wouldn't live to see his eighteenth birthday.

Dying was a private affair. It wasn't something he could share. John couldn't share this burden, or ease him. John loved him, more than anything: But this was one thing John couldn't help. John was able to watch his son die, unlike his wife who slipped away without him knowing,

But he still felt so fucking useless.

Because knowing didn't change anything. He still lost Stiles the same way he lost Claudia.

And the hindsight hurt almost worse than the heartache.

 

_______

 

"I'm scared."

Derek was sitting on Stiles desk chair, the boy laying in his bed. Derek had come over hours ago, seeking Stiles' intellect on something supernatural before Stiles...you know. But, Derek couldn't even remember what it was anymore.

Because Stiles was laying there, looking so small in that bed with the bitter smell of fear poisoning his scent.

Derek was about to ask 'why?' but then he realised that was just plain stupid. The boy was dying, there was plenty to be afraid of. Too many things for somebody so young.

He'd seen to much for somebody only sixteen. He had so much to fear from this world that continued to wrong him, again and again. Like it had to Derek.

Because they'd both had loved ones taken from them.

"I'm so young." Stiles whispered, so uncharacteristically quiet and still. It was almost worse than if he was panicking. "And I'm scared that's all I will ever be."

Derek swallowed.

Because out of all the things he could be afraid of...it was this.

"You're more than young Stiles. You've done so much." He tried. He didn't know how to comfort anyone that was dying, despite all the deaths he'd seen.

Because they'd all been taken before he got the chance.

"But I'll still be the poor sixteen year old boy that died far too soon." Stiles said, and Derek kept his mouth shut.

Because that was so true that it ached.

Stiles was about to become the boy that died, not the one who lived. All the things he'd survived up until this point would be null, worthless.

Because he was going to die anyway.

And Derek couldn't stand it. Because Stiles was starting to look like Derek, utter despair staining his existence. He was in a incredibly deep depression, and it hurt to see.

Because there was too much of himself in Stiles.

Derek then made an effort, for once in his life: to discuss something different. It was weird, and Derek failed a few times before he just addressed the elephant in the room and talked about his dead family.

It seemed to distract Stiles from his own fate, and he kept talking.

Because Derek knew that any sort of ignorance was heavenly bliss.

"Yeah, my mom was an amazing cook." Stiles contributed, when the topic somehow came around to their moms...the one thing they had in common.

"Mine too." Derek said, a small smile on his face at the aged memory of her: standing over the stove with a bright smile and green eyes framed by dark hair.

Derek realised too late that he let the silence lapse.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.” Stiles rushed to adhere.

Because Derek looked sad. Then again, Derek pretty much has always looked sad, like an undercurrent of misery: Which was just fucking _tragic_. Stiles knew that watching people you love die was worse than dying yourself, because now had done both. But, knowing that your loved ones death was intentional, a _murder_...That was just fucking _disgusting_.

Stiles mother slipped away slowly, but Derek's was ripped from him in a heartbeat.

And Stiles had never hated Kate Argent as much as he did in that single moment.

“It’s okay...I don’t want to forget.” Derek said, voice small, and Stiles got that. Sure, it was fucking _painful_ to talk about people you lost, but it could be strangely relieving.

Stiles wondered if he'd become the same to Derek.

Just a painful memory of a boy taken before his time.

Was all his life deemed to be remembered in single fleeting moments of grief? Was he always just going to become a ghost that hovered over them, haunting their lives because he'd lost his own?

He didn't want to be a painful memory.

He didn't want his loved ones to feel the same way he did when his mom died. That was the worst hell on this earth.

But Stiles couldn't do anything to stop it.

He was gathering that, though, about most aspects of his life. He couldn't do anything but go with the flow and hope it didn't end up with him six feet under.

He couldn't fight something that he was never going to win. His mom fought it. But all she did was suffer for another three years.

If he was going to die, if his young life was going to be ripped from his hands: It was going to be quick.

He didn't want to suffer, and he didn't want other's to either. He'd suffered enough, they all had. He didn't want to be another Boyd or Erica, or even his mom.

And besides:

Stiles had always wanted to go out with a bang.

 

_________

 

Scott's eyes snapped open, and he sat up in his bed.

Something woke him.

He looked around his room and after finding nothing he grabbed his phone. There were no messages. Scott didn't know why he thought there might be.

Stiles was dead. There was nobody texting him at odd hours anymore.

Scott swallowed, sleep suddenly leaving him too fast. With his phone in his hand, his resistance was teetering. He knew he shouldn't do this, that it would only make things worse.

He'd open the pool of grief he'd been trying to ignore. He hadn't cried yet, and he wasn't ready to.

Because crying over Stiles would mean he was really gone.

But...the temptation was there.

And Scott already missed the sound of his voice.

He opened his phone, quickly opening his contacts and dialling Stiles before he could make himself stop. He gently raised the phone to his ear, curling up on his side and staring at the wall.

_"Hi, it's Stiles. I'm not answering the phone right now, so please leave a message and I'll call back soon. Or you know, call Scott because I'm probably with him. Anyway...how do you end a voicemail?"_

And that's how it ends.

Scott had always told him he needed to fix it. Stiles refused, said it had charm. Scott could see the charm now...or maybe that was just the loneliess talking. 

Scott played it again.

_"Hi, it's Stiles-"_

And again.

_"...call Scott-"_

And again. 

His mom found him in the morning, phone clutched tightly in his hand with tears falling from his blank mournful eyes. She climbed into bed behind him, holding him to her chest with no words. She didn't speak, didn't try to get him up.

She just held him as he mourned his best friend.

 

_________

 

John wasn't the only one that would feel this passing.

Stiles had a pack...a best friend. They had to know too. John brought up the subject of it, and there was no surprise, only sadness, when Stiles didn't even try to fight him.

Stiles had always tried to prevent his friends from feeling pain. But this was just a sign that Stiles knew that he couldn't protect them from everything...since he couldn't even protect himself from that same thing that took his mom.

It was just a repeat of time. A broken record tape. Repeating over and over. They knew the sequences that were to follow.

It just saddened John that all that stubborn fighting spirit in his son had already been lost.

But Stiles told Scott himself. And John was secretly and selfishly glad it didn't have to be him, because he couldn't even say it to himself: the words tasted too bitter on his lips. It was all too real to be true, but too much of a horrible fucking _coincidence_ to be fake.

Because his body was killing him.

And it was killing John too.

 

_________

 

The upstairs hallway of the Stilinski house was filled with photos. They lined the walls, hung up in their perfect little rows. John knew that if you lifted one you'd see the more vibrant colours that had avoided the sun in the years following Claudia's death.

Neither John nor Stiles had touched them, afraid of shattering one of the few remaining pieces of her that they still had. Afraid of shattering her strange but wonderful passion for photography. The walls were covered with bright, beautiful pictures of them and her, taken by her clunky old camera which she refused to throw out or replace because _"they just don't make them like they used to, John."_

John couldn't deny the pictures it produced were beyond beautiful.

Although John was sure that is was his wife's talent and not the camera, he didn't say anything. He just let her take her pictures and find her antique frames.

Because each picture had a frame, apparently. She said very frame was made for a picture that had or would be taken.

Most families just cut or altered their pictures to fit frames, but the Stilinski's didn't. They had large and small, colourful and plain: each had its place.

But John could see a pattern to this madness.

The frames that held their son were _always_ the most beautiful. They were the ones that always caught your eye as you walked past, made you stop and admire it's beauty.

Because despite all the beauty this world held...her favourite thing to take photos of was none other than their baby boy.

Claudia had loved Stiles so much, and John used to joke that she loved Stiles more than she loved him. But then she'd give him a little kiss on the cheek as she danced past, and telling him that they were the two halves of her whole.

When she left John couldn't even look that them. Because he could see her sitting there on the hallway floor, gently sliding new pictures into frames and rearranging her wall of memories.

It was a beautiful thing, filled with so much passion and love that it blinded John with its beauty. There was so much _life_ within its frames.

John hadn't touched it since she died, and it was saddening because this wall had followed Stiles throughout his childhood, building and changing as he aged and grew. It had ceased the moment Claudia stopped breathing.

And now there were no photos of Stiles older than nine.

But John knew if he'd tried to touch that beauty he'd only tarnish it. It was only beautiful because they were Claudia's pictures, Claudia's passion. John was a very simple man and did not know how to create or preserve beauty.

So he just left it.

He had the wall memorised now, after all it hadn't changed in 7 years.

But now he wanted to rip the memories from his brain. He wanted to _forget_.

John wanted to tear the pictures down, shatter them and burn them. He wanted to destroy _them_ because all they did was destroy _him_ and any defence he'd built up to face another day alone.

Just sitting there in the hallway reminding him of what he'd lost.

But...he also wanted to touch them with gentle fingertips, he wanted to gently brush away the dust from his wife and son's smiling faces. He wanted to keep them forever because they were captured moments of time when everything was happy and safe.

They destroyed his present while preserving his past.

It was the life he'd lost but the memories he'd kept from it. He wanted to live through those photos, wanted nothing more than to go back to those captured moments.

But he didn't want to spend his days, staring into a time he could never get back. Staring into the unattainable life he wanted back so desperately.

John reached out, as if to caress his sons smiling face. But then he was suddenly so angry, angry that he had to lose this precious and beautiful thing. He didn't deserve this.

He brought up a fist, moving to slam it down on the picture that taunted him of what he lost.

He yelled in anger, moving his fist at the last second to punch the wall instead. He cried out, not because of the pain in his fist but the pain in his heart.

These pictures were not his to destroy, and he couldn't. The same way he couldn't touch them after Claudia died.

But that didn't stop the vibrations from his fist hitting the wall to send the picture tumbling to the ground. He reached out to grab it, time slowing as his heart leapt into his throat. He missed, alcohol dulling his reflexes.

It fell with no sound, but it was no better than if it had crunched.

John kneeled over the small picture, laying face down on the floor.

He felt sick and guilty. If only he had listened to Stiles, not drink alcohol and maybe he could have caught it. Stopped the guilt in his stomach from joining the ache in his heart.

But if John had learnt anything from loosing the precious people he loved, it was that wishing and praying for the past to change didn't fix anything.

He didn't want to touch the picture, one of the first of Claudia's creations. He didn't want to check.

It was like Schrödinger's Cat. If he didn't check, could he stay like this forever: not knowing if he'd broken this little piece of life?

John knew that was a bunch of bullshit.

He couldn't live without knowing, he wasn't a theoretical man. He was simple, relying of facts. That's why it had been so hard to accept the supernatural, since it was all magic and myth and not scientific fact.

But living without knowing was the worst way to live, head filled with possibilities and never having any answers to sate them.

He'd go insane.

But John idly wondered if that would be better than his reality.

Then he remembered, he watched his son go insane. Watched the reality slip from him. John knew he couldn't submit to the thing Stiles fought against right until his mind shattered. He couldn't surrender when Stiles put up such a fierce fight.

He couldn't undermine the last effort of his son.

So John braced himself, gently caressing the edge of the picture and readying himself to flip it over. He wasn't ready to go insane, he couldn't. He wouldn't go insane, not ever.

 _And yet here he was sitting over a picture like it could break his reality_.

John breathed.

He flipped the picture, and the sight was inexplainable. Worse that a broken heart, leaving him both red raw and freezing cold.

So John did the only thing he could.

He ran away.

He fled the room, leaving the picture of little five year old Stiles sitting on his father's shoulders, laying abandoned on the floor. Stiles' toothy smile was fractured into pieces.

Shattered like John's heart.

 

_________

 

Frontotemporal dementia was just really fucking _tragic_.

There were days when Stiles was completely convinced he was fine...But you didn't notice gradual change when you watched it happen. Stiles had watched this change happen, he'd been stuck in the mind it was happening to. So, he didn't notice the changes, not like everyone around him did: sad eyes watching him pass by.

But, he noticed the changes now...plain and oh so horribly clear in front of his very eyes.

...Because mirrors did not lie. Not like his mind had been lying to his body. And, now, Stiles was able to see what he'd become.

Which brought Stiles back to the same conclusion. Dementia was really fucking _tragic_.

It had destroyed him, from the inside out. Obliterated him...and Stiles should have realised sooner. His mother had looked exactly the same towards the end.

...But his dad had always said he looked like his mom.

And now he was just more alike to her than either of them could have ever dreamt.

He decided then that despite everything of his mother's that he tried to keep alive, this was not one of them. He didn't want to look like this. He didn't want to feel this, his peaceful delusion shattering before his eyes and leaving him so empty and confused.

He didn't want to look like he was dying. It was already enough knowing it was true.

Now he knew everybody that saw him knew he was dying. And he suddenly realised why everyone was being so nice, coddling him and showering him with nice words...because he was dying.

Stiles didn't want to be _'The Dying Child'._

He held a 200 pound werewolf above water for two hours and all that got him was little thanks and even more trouble. He pined after Lydia Martin for years, hoping for a least one look in his direction.

Now he got smiles at every turn and was complemented every time he breathed.

But it was all empty and worthless to him now.

He wanted to be the anonymous boy that was kinda there and was also a bit annoying. He wanted that time back. He'd spent his life trying to not be the wallflower, to be noticed...Now all he wanted was to fade back into the shadows.

He didn't want a label. And he didn't want a label that included the word _dying_.

Because dying was hard enough, thanks.

Anyone could see it on his face. And all the smiles and nice words he'd get now would only be hiding pity. Because Stiles was only pitied now.

The fact that he was dying smothered anything else he was or could have been.

He was _The Dying Child_ , not Stiles: the stubborn and smart son of a sheriff that had saved his friends countless times. He was dying before he was anything else.

The adjective of dying was placed before his name, and therefore _who_ he was. All individuality had been stripped from him, all personality. He wasn't Stiles anymore.

And all because he looked like this.

His face was a pasty white, and could be described with no other word than sickly. His cheekbones were sharp angles of his face, cutting out like glass and sinking back in to the hollows of his cheeks.

And his eyes.

Stiles couldn't stand it.

Because he had his mother's eyes now. The wide fading desperation and the emptiness that tapered around the edges.

The empty, blank look was spreading. Consuming is vision and his mind. It was wining as that desperation turned to despair because Stiles was not going to be saved: he had realised nothing could save him.

....He looked like his mom the month before she died.

He knew all along, this exact image resurfacing from old painful memories. But seeing himself like this just brought those images soaring back into his mind and before his eyes.

He couldn't see himself anymore. He just looked like his mother and like death.

But those were the same thing now.

She was bones now, and Stiles was on his way...sinking into himself until only bones remained. His clothes hung loose in odd places, and he did his best to cover it up with more clothing, more layers like he had in the weeks after she died. It was still evident enough.

Because no matter what he did or actions he took, he couldn't hide death.

It was the one thing you couldn't hide.

And this.... _this_ is what Stiles Stilinski had become.

He never wanted this. He didn't want to be like his mom, not anymore. He wanted to live the way he wanted, marry if he wished. He wanted to marry a strong woman like his mom, like Lydia, and maybe have 2.5 kids...The lot.

Stiles wanted life in whatever form it would his. He just wanted his life to live like he wanted...He wanted the freedom to choose.

He wanted to lay down on the couch and watch movies without forgetting the plot. He wanted to go to school and remember what class he had earlier that day. He was forgetting.

He was losing life when he didn't have much left to hold.

It was like his memories were a pool of water, drying up and shrinking in the hot desert sun. There was nothing to replenish it, nothing to make it stop.

Stiles could only watch as his life dried up before his eyes.

He didn't want this, he was only 16. He didn't want to die. He wanted his friends to stop treating him like he was glass and for his dad to stop looking at him like this was his mom all over again.

...And he wanted his mom to make it go away.

"Mom?" He asked staring at the mirror. Her smile was on his lips, her gaze in his eyes. Stiles stared into the mirror and she stared back.

"Mom." He said more forcefully, and her lips moved with his words.

He was becoming his mother.

"I'm not you yet. I'm not." He whispered, and her sad eyes just stared back at him.

"Not yet." Her lips said and Stiles knew.

"Please don't make me mom. I'm not ready to die." He pleaded, moving forward to place his shaking palms against the reflective glass.

Her hands touched his, drawing him in.

"I don't want to die." He whispered, staring into her eyes.

Tears fell from both their eyes.

"I don't want to die." He repeated as his knees crumpled beneath him, sending him to the floor...He didn't fight it. He curled up in a ball at the foot of the mirror, staring into his own big tearful eyes in the sunlight.

His mother wasn't there.

She was dead. The sickness had already killed her, and it was killing him too. He could do nothing but cry...and he hated every tear that fell from his eyes. Because he was weak, dying. He couldn't fight, couldn't learn from his mistakes.

All he could do was cry.

And he _hated_ himself for it.

 

_________

 

John didn't do much but sit in his chair and weep. He thought he knew pain when Claudia died. He thought he knew it all, knew what it felt like to have a broken heart.

But at least when she died there was still Stiles in this house.

Now there was nobody, and John realised he had much _more_ capacity to hurt.

Because this....this was what it felt like to have a broken heart: less like it was cracking down the middle and more like he had swallowed it whole and it was sitting, bruised and bleeding in the pit of his stomach.

He hadn't loved Stiles the same way he'd loved Claudia. Claudia held his heart, the love of his life while Stiles was his son, a gift God had given them both. Stiles was Claudia's and his: So, he didn't love Stiles the same way.

But, for some reason this hurt worse.

Because Stiles was _his_. The life he created, watched come into the word and breathe his first shuddering breath.

Which wasn't much different from the last breath he breathed.

John had been there from the beginning, and he'd remained until the bitter end. He was there for the entirety of the life Stiles had lived.

Such a short, _short_ time.

He'd watched his son be born, held him in his first moments. But...then John watched him die, holding Stiles in his arms only sixteen years later.

And now he knew what it was like to have a broken fucking _heart_.

...Because John had lost everyone he had ever loved.

And now there was nobody left but him and his bottle of sorrows.

 

_________

 

Stiles was admitted to the hospital.

Stiles' plan to go out with a bang was now lost.

But it was okay. He didn't really mind anymore. His reality was dimming around the edges. So, nothing really mattered much anymore.

And it was just a little bit sad.

 

_________

 

John could tell you something sad.

His life.

Because he was the husband that lost his wife, and the father that lost his son. So now what was he? He wasn't a a husband or a father.

He was nothing.

Nothing.

John was the only one that survived the sickness that took everyone he loved. His son and wife both died in a hospital room and yet he still breathed and his heart still beat. He _survived_.

So why did it feel like he was dying too?

 

_________

 

Stiles was so smart, he often left Derek stumbling to catch up with his sharp wit and fast movement. There had always been a smile on his face and a fire in his eyes.

That Stiles was gone now, and Derek was left staring at what was left behind. This skeleton of a person was all that was left now. Derek wasn't sure if it was even Stiles anymore.

But they all waited in this hospital room hoping this skeleton was still Stiles somewhere inside.

"You know, Derek" Stiles said on one of those sad nights, voice weak. Drew sat up straight, eagerly listening to his voice, despite that it was broken and oh so tired.

His voice still sounded like his, but only under the utter exhaustion with life.

"Yes Stiles?" He asked. Stiles blinked his huge eyes owlishly, massive and so deceptively bright in his hollow face. He smiled.

"You turned out to be quite a good alpha after all."

And that was it.

The first tear fell, sliding so innocently down his shocked face. He blinked, sitting in the silence as the room rubbing his eyes. He held his hand up into the soft moonlight, seeing the reflective tear clinging to his skin.

And then they didn't stop: traitorous foreign tears began running down his cheeks. He couldn't comprehend why these tears were warranted, Stiles was just the human boy. He was just the friend of one of his Beta's.

But...he wasn't. Stiles was pack. Derek could see now.

Stiles had always been pack.

And he was just laying in that hospital bed, staring at Derek with those wide child like eyes: misplaced on his sixteen year old face.

He was out of his _fucking mind_.

....And Derek's heart _broke_.

.

 

Derek was man enough to admit he spent that night holding Stiles' skeletal hand, sobbing and begging him not to go.

 

_________

 

Stiles still left.

Left a empty bedroom, empty seat at the table and empty place on the pack couch: the places his life had once filled, wiped clean like he was never even there. He left a best friend and a father, aching and empty.

And he also left a gaping hole in Derek's chest.

 

_____

 

"I hate goodbyes." Scott whispered, echoing in the late afternoon.

Stiles stared at him. He was having a bad day today, which meant he didn't know what words were or what was happening. He was reduced to little more than a toddler mentality, which was ironic because he had these incredibly large sad eyes that looked like they'd seen too much.

And they had.

They all had.

"I hate having to feel like I have to think of everything I want to say, I hate being scared that I'll think of something once you are gone."

Scott was aware that visiting hours were almost over, and that didn't help the anxiety rolling through him. He didn't know what to say, he was never good with words.

Stiles was the one that had been...And today he didn't even know how to fucking speak.

Scoot breathed, trying to quell the sudden brutal anger that rose. Scott had learnt in the past few months that sometimes there was enemies you couldn't fight.

Like this.

"But I guess that's what saying goodbye is always like, like jumping off a cliff. A trust fall. The worst part is making the choice to do it. Once you are in the air, all you can do is let go."

Scott swallowed.

"I don't want to let you go."

He looked into the setting sun, and he thought back to Allison. He didn't want to let her go either. But he was beginning to realise this world he now lived had a habit of taking loved ones from him.

And from Derek.

He idly wondered if he'd end up like Derek, and if Allison had been the first domino to fall. He wondered if now the rest would only follow in similar gruesome and painful ways.

Scott was developing a habit of losing everything he loved.

He wondered if it was Beacon Hills, or if it was just this new life.

Because Scott was powerful, filled with extraordinary abilities of healing and speed. He now realised nothing came without a price, and he wondered if this was his price. He wondered if it had been Derek's price too, and if it had been paid with the death of his entire family.

Or if death was still taking people he learned to love.

Like Erica, Boyd...and now, he guessed: Stiles.

Derek was still loosing the things he'd only just gotten back. And Scott was suddenly reminded of everything he had to lose.

Like the boy in front of him.

Scott was losing him.

And he...he just _didn't know_ what to do anymore. He was out of ideas, run dry of resolve.

He just felt washed up and empty.

Because what kind of man was he if he couldn't even save his best friend?

Stiles sat there, impartial to his heartbreak: crisp white sheets pulled up around his hips and his hands curled gently on his lap.

But his eyes looked at Scott, so impossibly large and so impossibly _sad_.

"Yeah." Scott agreed. Scott understood, somehow, within the sadness infecting his heart. Stiles' eyes didn't blink, just looking at him so mournfully. Scott had to look away.

He looked out the window instead, watching the sun set on another day.

"Me too."

 

_________

 

Scott was at the Vet clinic.

The dark cloud of depression and grief around him as he worked was apparently to much for Deaton, but Scott couldn't really summon the energy to care.

"You need to break free of this depression." Deaton said. Scott left his cloth on the table to turn and look at him.

"...It's been almost a year now, Scott. He's gone. Nothing can heal until you break free." he said, standing behind Scott with his eyes scanning over Scott's face; like he was searching for something. But Scott didn't give him the time to find out what, because he only blinked at Deaton, before turning on his heel and walking away.

Because screw _that_.

He lost his best friend at age sixteen. He was allowed to mourn for as long as he wanted. Scott didn't care what anyone had to say, he would grieve at his own fucking pace.

And besides...who said he wanted to heal anyway?

 

_________

 

John looked at what the illness had done to his son.

He committed it to memory.

But he couldn't bare to only be observer, he wanted to be close: to hold. He didn't want his son to slip from his grasp without his notice, not like his wife did.

He didn't know what to do.

But, then Stiles cried out causing something familiar and paternal to rise up inside John: and he knew.

"God, Stiles" John whispered as he slowly pulled himself up out of his seat and onto the stiff bed. He heard the slight creak from their combined weight on the bed but he paid it no mind. He was focused on the body in his arms.

He sat up and crossed his legs slowly, unsure of Stiles' level of sanity to recognise his father. The boy continued to cling to his warmth as he laid the boy's head in his lap.

It wasn't quite reassurance, but at least Stiles wasn't pushing him away. Now, that would shatter his breaking heart.

He began to gently pull at the hair in front of his son's eyes, if only to occupy his hands and thoughts away from the death happening in front of him, since it was sticked together in clumps from the boy's sweat. He brushed it out of his closed eyes, and Stiles' eyelids flickered at his movement, making John's heart skip a beat. But then they stopped, and Stiles was once again, still.

It hurt him to see such a strong boy succumb to this. His usually pale skin paled even further until he looked a pasty, fragile white. He looked so brittle, like a baby bird with thin bones and broken wings.

This disease was tearing apart his body and infecting that brilliant, sharp mind.

It shouldn't have come to this. Stiles Stilinski was not supposed to die like this. He was supposed to die in a far distant future, one where John had already gone. He was supposed to die with somebody he loved, after a full and complete life.

Not like this, never like this.

John wasn't supposed to be around to watch his kid die.

And especially not when he'd barely even learned was love was...what _life_ was.

John felt tears prick at his eyelids. Stiles didn't deserve this. He was a stunning boy, despite his fallbacks. John knew he was beautiful, and his opinion might be biased but fuck anyone that said otherwise: Stiles deserved more than that. Because he was always true to himself and others, even when it was nowhere near socially acceptable to be so. He was stubborn and so brutally honest.

...And now he was going to die.

But he always was going to die before his time, this was how it was going to end for him. No matter how hard he tried, he was always going to die like this: young and undeserving.

Like Claudia.

John let out a pained laugh, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Because even his wife, a lovely but normal woman: got to live into her early 30's with her son by her side. And yet here Stiles was, a sixteen year old boy who had fought darkness at every corner, dying in a hospital room with only his fail of a father to see him go.

No matter how you looked at it. It. Just. Wasn't. Fair.

John quickly wiped away his tears before they hit Stiles' face, putting both of his hands on either side of the boys face to cradle his delicate, fragile cheekbones.

"You deserved to live, damnit" he whispered into Stiles' face. He was crying openly now, horrific gasping sobs revealing the pain he'd kept locked inside, away from Stiles. Because Stiles knew of the pain of watch somebody you loved die, he didn't need to see it on his father's face.

But Stiles wasn't here anymore. He wasn't lucid, and despite that being so fucking heartbreaking it also allowed him some relief.

Because Stiles wouldn't have to watch his father cry.

The relief didn't last long, unsurprisingly.

Because his sobs seemed to stir the boy, as his eyelids slowly fluttered open to reveal dimmed honey orbs.

"Don't cry Dad" was all Stiles said.

But it was enough to release the floodgates of his grief.

John took his one of his hand's from Stiles' cheek to cover his mouth as loud sobs threatened to escape. The hot tears fell onto Stiles' face.

"I'm sorry Stiles, I-I _can't_ " he finally choked out.

"Don't worry dad, we're going to be okay" was the delusional response. John didn't know how to answer that. Even if Stiles was delusional and his sharp mind was fading, he didn't deserve to be lied too.

But he couldn't just say to his face that he was going to die, he couldn't shatter his blissful naivety. John didn't have the guts.

He was a god damn _coward_.

So he just sat there, and watched Stiles fade back into the darkness. He was a coward at heart, he knew he should have said something. At least something to comfort him in his rare partially-lucid moment.

Because it damn well could of been his last.

Life had thrown tragedy after tragedy at them both. He did everything for his friends, and as much as John hated to admit it, for him too. He helped others, despite only being armed with his wit and stubbornness.

He fought for his loved ones, almost dying hundreds of times because he threw himself in front of them constantly.

But this was a fight nobody could win.

 

_________

 

Stiles had lost his fight.

But that little lucid moment had not been his last, and John had been so damn thankful for the small miracles.

They didn't get enough of them.

But, Stiles had enough time to tell his father three important things. Three things John would cherish for the remainder of his grief stricken life.

 _"You're not a failure."_ Was the first.

Something John refused to believe, but the determination on Stiles' young face drilled it into deep into his skull.

And John tried to believe.

"You did your best." Was the second.

John had just nodded, because while he wasn't the best father...he'd tried. Tried to protect him, cherish him..cradle him. Stiles had been though, and John learned to roll with the punches.

But the disease still took his son in the end.

And John knew there was nothing he could have done to stop it, but hearing Stiles utter those four little words seemed to ease the pain in his chest.

...Because Stiles knew he was loved.

 _"I love you, dad."_ Was the third and final thing.

Because it had been Stiles last time to be Stiles. To be aware of the life and the love he was about to lose. He didn't want the important things to be left unsaid.

And John would be forever thankful.

Because that love was the only thing holding John together on the darkest nights. On the nights where he curled up on the floor of Stiles' bedroom, crying into his sons favourite hoodie as he fought off the will to die.

Stiles' love was the only thing reminding him of the life he still had, when all he could think about was the one Stiles lost.

John knew it was Stiles' final deed as John's son, final request he'd left upon John's life before he'd parted. Helping John and caring for him even after he was gone. And it helped John to remember the good there had been before the darkness consumed it.

Because these days darkness was all he could see.

And John was once again so fucking thankful that Stiles had been his son, because despite everything...Stiles had once lived. He'd blessed John with those few years he'd walked this earth.

Stiles was a gift that John was glad he got to cherish before he was taken away.

And he could never forget that.

John couldn't die, couldn't give up liked he'd wanted since the night Stiles left them. He had to live to remember those he'd lost, give life to their memory. Their memory would live through him, the husband and the father.

Because he was still a husband and a father even though everything that made him eligible to those titles were gone. He was still who they had loved. He was and forever would be Stiles' dad and Claudia's husband.

They'd lived.

They'd loved.

And, they'd died.

But, John refused to let them disappear. Their lives were gone but their memories were not.

...Because he would _always_ remember them.

 

_________

 

"Smile for me baby boy." John pleaded. "Smile for your papa."

Stiles just stared at him with wide, owlish eyes that...and that blank stare caused something to _break_ in John's heart.

Because in that moment he knew with utter sincerity that he'd lost Stiles.

It was final.

He'd watched this death come, watched it consume: but only now did it sink into the deepest parts of his own heart.

And shattered it.

His son's mind was gone, and it would be only days until his body followed.

Because what was a body without a mind? A life without memory?

Stiles wasn't his son anymore.

He was a automaton, a body without a mind. He still functioned, but there was no life in his eyes. He was a empty shell. A thoroughly scraped out container, all his memories and personality dug out from inside his mind and scattered into the breeze. His mind was dead, and his body could only follow.

He'd lost his son before he was even gone.

And now John would have to watch his baby boy die twice.

 

_________

 

Stiles died twice.

First his mind, and then his body.

John didn't know which one was worse.

Because the first one was like a punch in the face, his mind just shattered without any warning. Just one day the sheriff walked in and Stiles didn't recognise him anymore.

The second though...that was the one they'd all waited for. The slowly seeping and aching and dying. This one took its time, slowly shutting down his body piece by piece. Organ by organ and nerve by nerve until it reached his heart.

It was like a cool clarity when it was finally over, like a cool breeze cutting through the sweat and the tears.

And it was the silence.

It was just a single moment, Stiles was alive but then gone the next. But, then the cool breeze turned to ice in John's heart, squeezing and twisting and suffocating.

Because Stiles was gone.  
And John lost his world.

 

_________

 

Derek sat, feeling the hard plastic of the chair dig into him painfully. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on nothing but the heartbeat in his ears.

Because it was fading.

There wasn't much to do here, sitting outside Stiles' hospital room. He could have left hours ago, like the others had...but he didn't. He didn't know why, though.

He'd already watched too many people die.

...But he stayed.

And he didn't think he'd ever know why.

It was the end now, taking place in this hospital room behind his back. The Sheriff was with his son, and Derek could hear the low promises he was whispering to his son, cut off occasionally by his low keening cries and questions asking why it had to be his little boy.

But Stiles heartbeat was the only thing in Derek's ears.

He waited.

Stiles was dying slowly, so slowly. It didn't surprise Derek, though, since he'd been dying for almost a year now. It was only in character.

But at least this one year hadn't been four like his mother's had been.

Derek would have gently pierced Stiles' throat as he slept. One year had been enough.

And he knew that even if Stiles hadn't had known he was doing it, he would have been thankful...Like Paige had been. Derek would just have stayed until his heart stopped, then he'd have slowly slipped into the dark.

But he didn't need to, and for that Derek was also thankful.

Because Stiles was already doing a terrific job of killing himself.

As always.

But that didn't mean it didn't kill Derek inside to listen to his body slowly give out, for his heart beat to fade. Every minute it faded just a little, and Derek descended with it.

He'd watched too many fucking people die.

He wondered when it would finally be his turn.

 

_________

 

John replayed the moment Stiles died in his head.

Constantly.

The way is eyes grew dark and his breathing slowly grew airy and strange like there wasn't enough air.

Or the way he cried.

Because death wasn't graceful or beautiful. It was slow and aching, consuming and destroying. But once he was gone, It was like a bomb exploded; taking Stiles life and leaving John with shrapnel imbedded in his bones. 

Stiles did not die like they did in the movies.

There were no last words.

Only John's hand gripping his sons, bony and brittle in his crushing grip. Only Stiles' terror and insanity filled eyes staring at nothing...only his hand going limp and heavy in John's.

His body gave up on him, and that was all.

Not fireworks or shooting stars, Stiles died and the world barely blinked at his passing.

And it just made John so angry that nobody noticed or cared.

Or, it would have if he'd been able to feel anything apart from the bitter grief that consumed him the moment his brain registered that his son no longer breathed.

Instead he sat there, with dead eyes and his son's flatlining heart ringing in his ears.

 

_________

 

Stiles was buried on a warm summer day. It was in the crisp air of morning, the sun lightening the sky.

It was a beautiful day for something so tragic.

They buried Stiles in the place next to his mom that was meant for John, and it seemed like a cruel twist of fate, but really it was just a heartbreaking reality.

Then all was said and done, and everyone went home. Some to families but most to empty homes. John was one of those poor souls.

Stiles died, and there was nothing left to say. That was it. Fin, nada. No more Stiles and no more Stilinski's.

John would die some day, a day too far away. But he waited, for them. He lived life without truly living, waiting for deaths cold embrace...Because then he'd be buried next to his wife and son

He waited, aching for the cold release and the chance to wake up in a place far from here.

Because, there was nothing left here for John but graves and regrets.

 

_________

 

_Memories last forever,_

_Lives don't._

_________

 

Sometimes life was kind.

And sometimes you watched your best friend die when you were sixteen.

Scott drew the short straw in life.

Being the positive puppy he was: he never noticed that since he had become a werewolf, become 'popular'...

He'd actually lost more than he got.

Scott was free of his asthma, awesome at lacrosse and had a pretty girl interested in him. For the first time in his life, he was noticed.

Scott was...popular.

But it was only after he lost Stiles did he realise he lost more than he ever got.

He was free of his asthma at the cost of losing all control. He was good at lacrosse because he'd rid himself of his humanity. He got the pretty girl to notice him...and she died.

All these things: gone.

And then he'd lost the one thing that had been there from the beginning. Been there when Scott was nothing, a wallflower.

He lost _Stiles_.

And that was the harshest blow, because it woke him to his cruel reality. Dumped him in ice water and forced him, gasping and shaking: awake.

He thought he'd been nothing before, but even then he had Stiles.

Scott _always_ had Stiles.

He didn't know the definition of nothing until now. Because, now..now he had nothing.

Stiles was always at his side, even when Scott abandoned him for the high life. Scott had lost his shadow, his Robin. But he realised Stiles was never Robin: Scott had all these fancy-schmancy powers but Stiles was the real mastermind.

Stiles was his Batman.

He saved Scott constantly from his own naivety and idiocy. Saved Scott from himself. And Stiles had tried to show Scott the reality, that he didn't need all those things: but he was so fucking blindsided by Allison's pretty brown eyes.

But when Stiles died Scott realised he didn't need any of this. He didn't need lacrosse or girls or popularity, just like Stiles had tried to tell him all along.

...All he ever needed was Stiles.

He'd give every power he had, give his own life in a heartbeat if it meant he could have Stiles back.

But that wasn't the way the world worked.

Stiles was gone, for good. There was no resurrection for him, no second chance. He was dead. Scott lost him, lost his everything...Lost his Batman.

And there was nobody to save him now.

 

_________

 

Derek sometimes thought back to Beacon Hills.

He'd fled a long time ago.

The town was poisonous and it was destroying everything he'd learnt to love. He should have left with Cora when he had the chance, driven away like Peter told them to. He should have never looked back.

Then he wouldn't have lost her or had to watch everything else perish.

 

Derek sometimes thought back to California.

Sunny skies and forest that hid devastating dangers. Of ley lines that thrived, and of the Nemeton that called.

None of it mattered in the end.

Because the final blow had been something so terribly mundane that everything he had ever fought and bled for didn't even count.

 

Derek sometimes thought back to America.

The capitalist society, one he'd been so afraid of, fearing it's 'every man for himself' mentality.

Derek hated it. It was against his nature, of pack and of home. Everyone worked for a greater good, for a greater pack. He hated the loneliness capitalism caused.

But he was surprisingly good at being alone.

Because pack and home were unfamiliar words to him now. He was a wanderer. Had no home nor pack. A lone wolf.

He had fallen off the face of the earth, and he had no idea where he was or who he was anymore. All he knew was that he packed his bags and fled Beacon Hills, then got on the first plane to nowhere.

He didn't know where he was.

All that he knew was that the moment he touched down he ripped up anything that identified him as Derek Hale

He was wild, no nationality and no name.

And the only thing that remained was the tattoo between his shoulder blades. It was the only thing he had to remind him of who he was, had been. Sometimes he stopped, sat...and thought: reaching back to caress the skin that had been stained.

He thought back to America, to California, to Beacon Hills. Like zooming in on Google maps, he focused on the small things. He thought back the the town, the people, the pack.

And he thought back to the boy that was the final straw.

Because Derek had stayed. He fought because he thought to more he fought, the safer they would all be. He thought the supernatural could be pushed back, to leave them alone to live peacefully.

But the supernatural had never been the problem.

Because the small things were the ones that destroyed everything. The mundane things took everything from him.

Like love.

...Love _destroyed_ Derek.

He learnt to love again, to build a pack and to cherish people...but that was his first and final mistake. He should have learned from Kate.

Because love only killed in the end.

He opened his heart, letting them all in. And they died there. His pack died in his heart, and they ripped it apart. Erica...Boyd....and _him_.

Derek did not have a heart anymore.

It frayed with Erica, broke with Boyd.

...But it had died the day he watched Stiles Stilinski be lowered into the ground.

 

_________

 

John breathed.

He had Melissa standing over him, and others he thought he might have known.

But that didn't matter at all.

He was a old man now, more light hair than dark and more lines on his face than he cared to count. But, otherwise, not much had changed; like Melissa still standing above him in nurses scrubs with nothing but a few more lines on her face.

It was all useless time that John didn't care for. Years that meant nothing.

John breathed.

He looked beyond the people above him...And he could see the things that mattered more than any years that had passed. The things he waited and waited for.

The things that made those years worth it.

They were right _there_. He could almost reach out and touch, caress long wavy hair and cradle a mole spotted cheek.

They were waiting.

And that knowledge made all the time fade from his weary bones, the pain and grief dissipate like it hadn't haunted him for twenty years.

John breathed.

The old Sheriff looked at their youthful faces, transcending the time that he'd suffered by. He took in their bright smiling eyes and their beckoning hands: and John knew after these long and painful years, he knew that he _earned_ this.

He smiled.

And he didn't breathe anymore.

 

_________

 

The sun set on Beacon Hills.

Shadows grew as the sun lowered in the sky. The bright rays shot across the town, driving through windows and filling up places with light before the darkness of night came to take it away.

Shadows grew from three graves, lengthening and spreading across the ground as the sun lowered in the sky.

The darkness was coming.

But it was okay, because dawn would come again. Dawn would always come again.

Night had fallen for the three stones, nothing more for them to do. They were gone, fading into the darkness and into the night.

Dawn was to come, but they wouldn't join the world: waking up from slumber. They would stay, not ageing or growing or changing. They wouldn't wake when the next dawn came.

...But, maybe they might the next time round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a pain to upload urghh. I'm not entirely happy with the result but it's good enough for now :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment or a idea you want me to write~
> 
> P.S Next week I start my senior year, so I might not be writing as much. I need to graduate y'all ahaha.
> 
> Edit: 25/5/16 Lmao past me was so right. I have barely written, this year has been so difficult. I've managed to create some original works though, and I may or may not post them. One is like 28,000 words of slow and sad death. Anyway, I might post some more of these thingos soon but right now I'm in the middle of my midterm exams so that's not happening rn ahah :)
> 
> Anyway, 
> 
> Bye bye!


	32. Suicide #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles remembered this feeling.
> 
> It wasn't something he was born feeling, he knew. It wasn't natural or normal. Stiles wasn't supposed to feel like this.
> 
> It was a horrible sinking feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayo
> 
> Sooo, long time no see???
> 
> I'm doing exams rn, but this has been sitting in my drafts for ages now. It's not my saddest work, I think, but I liked the way it laid out. 
> 
> Enjoy :)

_I've been here before_  
_But I always hit the floor_

 

Stiles remembered this feeling.

It wasn't something he was born feeling, he knew. It wasn't natural or normal. Stiles wasn't supposed to feel like this. It was a horrible _sinking_ feeling.

This feeling was born the day his mother got sick. The day he was forced to grow up far too fast.

He knew what it was, and it _terrified_ him.

_I've spent a lifetime running  
And I always get away_

Stiles had survived. He made it.

But it kept coming back for him.

It was especially harsh on those quiet nights. When Stiles laid awake, unable to sleep from nightmares but unable to stay awake because life was just so exhausting now.

He stayed in this in-between, between the click of the light and the start of the dream.

Sleep could either be a cool relief or a terrifying trap. Stiles didn't bother risking it anymore. He laid there instead, eyes open but mind somewhere else entirely.

He was vulnerable on those nights.

The OCD was back in full force, and he spent the night cringing and shifting in his bed, wanting to check the windows and doors again and wanting to make sure his dad was safe. He knew the windows and doors were locked. He'd already checked three times before bed.

But he was just so scared. He'd already lost one parent, he couldn't lose another.

Especially when he was losing himself.

The PTSD was a new one, though. Alongside the OCD and...and the _depression_. It wasn't from his mom's death or the fear of his father's: it was his own personal horror.

Because Stiles stayed strong. He just did what he had to do. There was no thinking, just doing. But the result of that was too much thinking when there was nothing more to be done. He was stuck thinking of the past, what he could of done. What might have made things end differently.

Hindsight was destroying him.

And the memories were too.

He woke up screaming sometimes. Because there was something inside him and it was prodding _and_ pulling _and_ tearing _and-_

Then he woke up.

And the hindsight reminded him of what he could have done to make his current reality so much better. What lived he could have saved if he just been stronger. Because he wasn't strong enough to save them.

...And he still wasn't strong enough to even save himself.

 

_But with you I'm feeling something  
That makes me want to stay_

 

Stiles never wanted this.

He never wanted to feel so...desolate. Nothing had changed: He still had his friends around him, still had his dad.

But he'd never felt more alone.

It was all in his head, he knew, he wasn't stupid. But knowing it was there didn't make it go away. Acknowledgment was only half of it.

He didn't know how to fix something he'd been avoiding for eleven years.

It was always just easier to shut it away, ignore the whispering in the back of his mind because there were more important - physical - things happening right in front of him.

They constantly fought to save their lives, to keep their bodies safe and out of harm.

...but what about their minds?

Stiles was an expert in saving lives, considering how much he'd been forced to improvise when people were at stake. But, he didn't know how to save himself. Because everything was a higher priority than that whispering. Lives were at stake, and it was something he could easily ignore.

But his patented method of ignoring things until they went away did not work with the whispering.

It stayed. It festered. It grew.

And now it was consuming.

It was a raging beast now, tearing through his mind and discarding all his attempts to force it back again. His avoidance had let it manifest into a monster.

It was too late to fix it.

And he was suffering. It was so easy to ignore before, but now it was all he could see and feel. It put a film over his eyes and ice in his heart. He didn't see or feel reality anymore.

Nothing tasted, smelled, or felt right anymore. So much of the time he spent awake: he just didn't have the energy or the desire to do anything. Stiles still carried on, but he didn't know how much longer he could keep it up.

He was trapped, stranded.

It was like he was standing underneath a floor of glass, screaming and banging on it trying to get the attention of the rest of the world going about their lives without him.

But that wasn't the worst part.

The problem is no-one could hear him or even knew he was trapped there.

His loved ones were still there, still by his side. He knew he wasn't trapped under glass, but it felt like he was. He was just so disconnected, cut off from them all. He was drifting away from them and from life.

And he could only wonder how far his tether could go before it snapped.

He wasn't ready to go.

But he didn't know if he really had a choice.

 

_I'm prepared for this  
I never miss_

 

Stiles still went to Morrell.

He was going through hell. That was plain to him. He wasn't blind, he knew he was fucked up in the head. And he tried. He tried to get better, to make sense of everything in his head and try to fix it. He tried to keep going.

But sometimes he couldn't.

This was hell, plain and clear. But nobody ever told him that hell wasn't just a place. It wasn't just a place he needed to pull himself though, it wasn't just a place he has to fight off.

It was also in his mind.

It was in there and he couldn't touch it. It was just there and he couldn't see it. He knew but did he really? It was in his mind and he was trapped with it, chains shackled to his wrist: dragging him down into the dark. He didn't know the extent of what was wrong with him.

And he was scared to find out.

 

_But I feel like a storm is coming_

 

It had just been so much worse since the Nogitsune.

Whatever he'd felt before was amped up to a thousand. The world just seemed so dark and empty to him. It was not really alarming at first, since the change was subtle. But, since the Nogitsune, his surroundings had begun to take on a different tone: the shadows of nightfall were more somber, his mornings less buoyant, and his usual walk in the woods became less...zestful. He didn't, couldn't, get excited for anything anymore. Everything was just different shades of grey.

Life was just one great big chore.

He knew there was more than this. So many countries and cultures all over the planet, new life beginning everyday. He knew everything should be amazing and stimulating: he lived in the world of supernatural, for God's sake.

But it just wasn't.

He didn't know where his excitement for life went, but it was gone. Sucked dry by the Nogistune and by life.

He still fought creatures with his friends, argued with Mr Harris and had sleepovers with his best friend.

But it didn't give him the same glee it used to. He felt old and withered, like he'd seen everything life had to offer and he was just done.

He was seventeen.

...And he shouldn't be ready to die.

He didn't want to be. He wanted more.

But he was stranded in a large empty sea, floating aimlessly and without hope in a world filled with grey skies. He wasn't drowning, it wasn't an urgent cry for help. It wasn't crushing and consuming, but it was poisoning...Infecting. It was all in his head and nobody could see, nobody knew he was withering away.

And he needed somebody to save him from himself.

 

 _If I'm gonna make it through the day_  
Then there's no more use in running  
This is something I gotta face.

 

Stiles was _terrified_.

Terrified of what this meant for him. For his dad. Because it hurt when you lost somebody.

...But it hurt even worse when it was their own choice to go.

Stiles didn't want to make that choice. It terrified him, and even the thought made fear surge through his veins and send his body reeling into a panic attack. But he didn't have any other choice. He didn't get to make that choice.

Because it was in his head and it was killing him.

 

_If I risk it all  
....Could you break my fall?_

 

"What does it feel like?" Stiles asked one day. For some reason it was just him and Peter at the loft when the pack was out fighting something. Peter wasn't trusted and even the most stupid of them knew something was wrong with Stiles, but none of them knew what.

Well, accept for Stiles.

"What?" Peter asked, seemingly confused as to why Stiles would willingly talk to him. And he was right, Stiles would never usually. But, right now: Peter could tell him something nobody else could.

"What does dying feel like?" He asked, biting the bullet.

Peter went quiet.

Stiles turned to look at him, swirling around on the couch. Peter stared out the large floor-to-ceiling window from where he sat on the stairs. His eyes were the sanest Stiles had seen them, like a quiet melancholy had momentarily replaced the psychotic revenge fuelling his existence.

"It depends, how you die." He answered finally, but that wasn't enough for Stiles.

"A bullet to the head? Fatal injection? Cutting wrists?" He questioned, and Peter's head turned to look at him with those dark, sad eyes.

And Stiles realised he knew. He knew why Stiles was asking, he was always too perceptive and cunning. But Stiles couldn't muster much energy to really care at that moment.

He just had to risk it for the assurance Peter's words could give. He needed assurance, because he felt so alone.

"It hurts for a second, but then your mind and reality just falls apart and-" He stopped, looking like he was swallowing the emotion that welled in his throat. He looked away from Stiles then, back towards the big windows that were too bright for such a conversation.

"But, after that...it's faster than falling asleep."

Stiles didn't quite remember what falling asleep felt like. But, that sounded alright to him.

"Okay." Stiles said, because he doesn't know what to say. He couldn't exactly say thank you, because this was not something to be thankful for. Peter shouldn't be reassuring a seventeen year old that it was okay to die.

But it was what Stiles needed.

...Just in case.

 

_How do I live? How do I breathe?  
_ _When you're not here I'm suffocating_

 

"Mom?"

Stiles knew he was insane. He was talking to the dead. But he was dying, and he needed them. Needed her. The night was so very lonely, and Stiles felt like he was drowning in his own dark thoughts.

 _"Help me."_ He whispered into the silence. The covers were pulled up his chin, reminiscent to the times when she used to tuck him in at night and the world suddenly felt so safe.

But the world wasn't safe anymore. Neither was it inside Stiles's head.

"I don't want to go, Ma."

The silence answered him, and Stiles tried to pretend he could feel her, leaning over him to kiss his forehead. He tried to remember what it felt like to have her long hair brush over his face, like a gentle caress his father could never replicate.

But she wasn't there. She hadn't been there for eight years.

"I don't wanna die."

His quiet sobs filled the night until dawn.

 

_I want to feel love, run through my blood  
Tell me is this where I give it all up?_

 

Stiles wasn't ready.

Every night as Stiles laid in his bed: the feeling was so strong, consuming and controlling. It was all he could think and all he could breathe.

It felt like it was killing him.

And yet somehow, he fought it off every night. He felt like he would shatter into oblivion under the pressure, but he did it. He held off for just one more night.

But his nerves were frayed and he was losing incentive to convince himself to stay.

"There's so much left." Stiles called Scott one night. He was putting it off again, and he knew if he kept this up the anxiety was going to kill him and not himself. These nights were incurably dark and melancholy as Stiles contemplated the life he had yet to have but was about to lose.

"So much what?" Scott asked, prompting Stiles to explain.

"Everything." Stiles said. Life. Love. Happiness. All waiting to be had but he couldn't.

He didn't have the energy to explain. He didn't even know why he called. Maybe it was because Scott usually understood without him having to say anything.

He was not disappointed,

"It will be okay, Stiles." Scott said slowly, understanding the wrongness in Stiles' voice. Stiles barked a sharp humourless laugh.

"Not its really not."

"It will be Stiles. She's gone but it's okay. It's not your fault." He said, and Stiles knew he was trying to help. But his mind erased everything he heard but 'She'.

Allison.

Stiles had forgotten about that. He had fucking _forgotten_.

But it was, _oh god_. It was his fault because he wasn't strong enough. And now she was dead and he was dying too.

Stiles hung up.

He stared up at the ceiling, heart in his throat and eyes wide and shocked.

For a single moment he felt absolutely nothing. Nothing. Blank, weightless emptiness. It was like he was floating above his bed, ascending into the motionless air.

But then it was back, gravity snatching him out of the air and slamming him against the hard ground. He was winded, gasping for air that would not come.

...and the panic attack had never taken him so fast.

 

_A million shards of glass  
That haunt me from my past_

 

Stiles had tried it once, just to see what I felt like. For science, you know.

But it wasn't just the science. Stiles' mom died only the day before, and the Sheriff was downstairs passed out with liquor and tears over his face.

He felt the darkness then. The sinking. He wasn't drowning, though. It was more like he was falling through an abyss, sinking down and down. It was a bottomless hole, but it wasn't urgent either. He felt no strong desire to escape or to even stop falling.

He just fell.

He felt nothing. No desperation. No fear.

And he just wanted to see what it was like to feel something.

So nine year old Stiles filled up the water in his bathtub, put the bubbles in like his mom used to and he took his father's razor. He got in, he relaxed into the vanilla foam his mom had loved.

And he slit one of his wrists.

The pain was excruciating. It cut through the blank emptiness inside him and yanked him back into the present. And he realised what he had done. He dropped the razor into the water, his other hand wrapped tight around his forearm as he curled up against the pain. The blood covered everything, spilling over his naked skin and into the bath like drops of food colouring dissolving in water.

It coloured the vanilla foam a vivid red.

He stumbled out of the bath, heart in his throat and limbs shaking as he wrapped his moms fluffy white towel around his arm and sank to the cold floor. He had cut his own wrist. He cut his own wrist. And he destroyed his mother's things.

It was like he'd been woken by cold water splashed onto his face. The...funk he'd been in was gone, pushed from existence and deep into the darkness of his mind.

Stiles had cried in both relief and sadness.

He knew he couldn't do that again. He couldn't let himself fall, he was only nine but his dad needed him now. Stiles needed to feed him, clean the house. He needed to fill in the hole left by his mom.

He needed to stay alive.

...But then Stiles grew up, and he realised that it just wasn't that easy.

Staying alive was hard enough on its own. It was so much effort, everyday, to stay alive. And, on top of everything else with his dad and school and friends and...

It just wasn't worth the effort anymore.

Stiles had seen no happiness come from his grief. He'd seen no changes despite his extensive efforts. It was just the same thing, coming back to claim him again like it had eight years ago.

Because depression was just another thing he'd had to combat. And he just couldn't anymore. It was too strong, raging in like a kamikaze pilot and destroying everything he'd worked on. It undermined all efforts he made, and then ate away at his satisfaction with them.

The whispering reminded him of every horrible thing that he'd ever felt, whist turning all the remaining happiness sour. It was like poison that was shrivelling blooming flowers, turning a thing of beauty into disgusting dead matter.

So he knew that his only choice was to let it win. Fighting it only caused more pain.

And Stiles couldn't deal with pain anymore, he couldn't deal with the withering and the doubting. He couldn't deal with his loved ones dying around him, and being terrified beyond belief as he tried not to think about who was next.

But the pain from his wrists was a different kind. It was sharp and screaming, not slow, aching and seeping. It _throbbed_ , sharp and strong.

His body screamed, shouting that it was all horrible and wrong. It cried out to him, grappling and pulling as it tried to make him _stop_. Make him give in, wake up, like he did when he was nine.

It was screeching and terrible, screaming the _wrongness_ of it all.

But to Stiles it sounded like a saving grace.

 

_As the stars begin to gather  
And the light begins to fade_

 

In the end it was never a conscious decision.

Stiles was so sure he was going to make it thought the night. And then...he just wasn't. He just snatched the ceremonial knife from the pile of junk on his desk, sat against the wall and slit his left wrist. Then he switched hands, and he did the same with his right.

And he just dropped the knife, leaning his head against the wall and staring at nothing,

Because all he knew was that he just couldn't do this anymore.

He knew there should be hope for life, dreams to be dreamt and goals to be achieved. But he felt none of that. He forgot what it felt like to be excited or even stimulated by life in general.

He was floating, separating, dissolving. He was falling apart.

His mind was killing itself.

And now he was killing what was left.

But the worse part was that he knew this was irrational and rash. He knew that there was so much more than this for him. Countries to see, languages to hear and cultures to experience.

He'd been so trapped in his fucking town and his crumbling mind. His world was so small, so constricted. And he couldn't feel anything other than the emptiness in his heart.

Because he'd suffered one hardship to many to find anything other than pain.

Allison was it.

She was the final straw.

He'd been coming apart for a long time, but she was what caused the naivety to shatter and the reality to come swooping in. He couldn't stop this. He couldn't fight the depression. It had grown too strong, too vicious after years of suppression. It was consuming him. Killing him from the inside out.

And he let it.

 

_When all hope begins to shatter  
Know that I won't be afraid_

 

It was okay.

Okay, it wasn't. It really fucking wasn't. But it would be...right? The desolation and irrational panic would go away?

He just didn't want to feel this anymore.

Was that so bad? Was escaping this hell really a bad thing?

 

_Tell me is this where I give it all up?  
For you I have to risk it all_

 

He wasn't ready. He didn't want to go.

But he couldn't stay. It was too late.

He was bleeding out onto the carpet, his clothing soaked and sticky with his own blood.

It had always been too late. There was never a choice, but actions he had to take. It was set in motion the day he found out his mom was dying.

But that didn't stop the desperation from kicking in. It was a basic human response to try and save himself, and he tried to ignore it because what was done, was done: but that didn't stop the panic from rushing through him. He was dying. On his bedroom floor.

And nobody knew.

His dad would find him when he got home from work. He'd find his son dead on his bedroom floor with slit wrists. It was going to _destroy_ him.

And suddenly Stiles realised how selfish he was being. The easy part was dying, it was the people left behind that suffered the consequences. His dad was not going to heal from this blow.

And he felt so undeniably disgusting.

Stiles wanted to stop. He wanted the blood to stop flowing from his body and he wanted the wounds to to knit themselves shut like Scott's always did.

He didn't want to die.

The panic was deafening, worse than anything he'd felt because he was dying and he had only minutes left.

Only minutes to try and tell his dad it wasn't his fault. He wasn't home. He was at work, none the wiser to Stiles' struggle for life.

His mind ran with possibilities as his blood spilled from his body. He tried to quench it, holding a hand over the wounds. But there was two of them. He couldn't reach both. And his fingers were numb, useless and limp.

...Stiles had severed some of the nerves in his hands when he'd slit them. He couldn't stop this. He was stupid and useless and it was too fucking late. Stiles was not going to wake up tomorrow. And his dad would never know why he had to go.

He _screamed_ : frustration, desperation and exhaustion pulling him in different directions and tearing him apart.

His phone was downstairs, he couldn't call his dad. He couldn't write a fucking suicide note either, his hands were numb and useless. He was loosing blood. His head was going fuzzy, like static across a TV screen. He couldn't focus.

Only the desperation kept him going.

He cried out, mind running as the cogs within it faltered and jammed. He was dying, but he needed to make sure his dad knew why.

It wasn't anyone's fault but Stiles'.

It was his depression. His anxiety and his OCD. His father, his friends, should not suffer just because Stiles did. Stiles held his shaking hands to the blank and unstained white wall, blood dripping from his numb fingers.

And he wrote.

He wrote in his own blood.

It was barely legible, his hands shook and sent blood splattering in places it wasn't needed. But the bright red words still stood out against the white, and the desperation seeped from Stiles.

And he knew it wasn't going to fix everything.

But at least they knew. They knew.

_"I'm sorry."_

And that was all he could say. They didn't need to be burdened with his circumstance, by his fucked up mind.

Everything was fading, and he felt himself slumping over to lay curled on the ground. He shivered against the wall, head braced against the hard surface as his reality slipped from him.

He felt calm, still guilty: but...it was all about to go away. It was going to be _okay_.

Stiles felt the last of reality slip around him, and he held a single working finger to the wall. With tired and shaking strokes: he wrote in tiny letters only an inch from his eyes because his eyesight falling in and out of focus.

He finished. His hand dropped. He smiled.

And he was gone.

...And there was nothing left but the writing on the wall.

 

 

 

_...Cause the writing's on the wall_


End file.
